Family By The Bunch

“I’m right,” Neesa persisted. “You do want a big family.” Letter to Reader Title Page Dedication About the Author Letter to Reader Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Epilogue Copyright

“I’m right,” Neesa persisted. “You do want a big family.”

“Yes, I want a big family,” Hank replied. “Kin—blood ties—have always meant everything to me.”

“Blood ties,” she repeated softly. “You must wonder at me spending so much time and energy on other people’s children.”

“I admire you for it. It’s not easy for many folk to step outside the pull of biological ties.” He shook his head. “Especially hard for men somehow.”

“I think it’s an ego thing. Heirs. Dynasty. Immortality.” She’d developed an edge to her words.

Hank puzzled over the new underlying anger in her tone of voice. Up until now, anger wasn’t an emotion he would have associated with the indefatigable Miss Little. He wondered what experience had pushed her to it.

And what else could get her blood heated...?

Dear Reader,

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You’ve asked for more family-centered stories, so we created FAMILY MATTERS, an ongoing promotion with a special flash. The launch title, Family by the Bunch from popular Special Edition author Amy Frazier, pairs a rancher in want of a family with a spirited social worker...and five adorable orphans.

Also available are more of the authors you love, and the miniseries you’ve come to cherish. Kia Cochrane’s emotional Romance debut, A Rugged Ranchin’ Dad, beautifully captures the essence of FABULOUS FATHERS. Star author Judy Christenberry unveils her sibling-connected miniseries LUCKY CHARM SISTERS with Marry Me, Kate, an unforgettable marriage-of -convenience tale. Granted: A Family for Baby is the latest of Carol Grace’s BEST-KEPT WISHES miniseries. And COWBOYS TO THE RESCUE, the heartwarming Western saga by rising star Martha Shields, continues with The Million-Dollar Cowboy.

Enjoy this month’s offerings, and look forward to more spectacular stories coming each month from Silhouette Romance!

Happy New Year!

Mary-Theresa Hussey

Senior Editor, Silhouette Romance

Please address questions and book requests to:

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Family by the Bunch

Amy Frazier

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To my daughter, Sarah,

whose generosity of spirit

belies her age.

AMY FRAZIER has loved to read, listen to and tell stories from the time she was a very young child. With the support of a loving family, she grew up believing she could accomplish anything she set her mind to. It was with this attitude that she tackled various careers as teacher, librarian, freelance artist, professional storyteller, wife and mother. Above all else, the stories always beckoned. It is with a contented sigh that she settles into the romance field, where she can weave stories in which love conquers all.

Amy now lives with her husband, son and daughter in northwest Georgia, where the kudzu grows high as an elephant’s eye. When not writing, she loves reading, music, painting, gardening, bird-watching and the Atlanta Braves.

Dear Reader,

I have been blessed with family.

Surrounded by my parents, my brother and a host of aunts, uncles and cousins, I grew up to develop a strong sense of identity and of roots.

When I married, my husband’s diverse clan reinforced the concept that family is the framework within which we learn communication and acceptance.

My husband, my two children and I eventually moved far away from our families, forcing us to create new traditions, to establish a new safe harbor, and to learn that family really is a state of mind.

I am not so naive as to believe that everyone’s experience with family has been as traditional or as positive as mine. But I do believe that, regardless of one’s past or present circumstances, one can create a sense of family—and I mean family in any of its many nurturing forms—if one keeps an open and a loving heart.

In Family by the Bunch, Neesa, who cannot have children, and Hank, who dearly wants children “of his own,” learn that biology does not necessarily make a family. They ultimately learn to love, respect and accept “other people’s children” as their own. And isn’t this a lesson—to see family in the eyes of a stranger—from which all humankind could benefit?

With love,

Chapter One

Surrounded by designer-clothed kids and tennis-skirted moms, the cowboy at the elementary school bus stop stood out like a sharply chiseled hunk of granite nestled in a crystal bowl of whipped cream.

Rubbing her eyes as much in reaction to the incongruous sight as against the early-morning glare, Neesa Little reached into her convertible sports coupe’s compartment for sun glasses as she waited for the neighborhood children to board the big yellow bus. Remembering she’d left the sun glasses on her kitchen counter, she muttered sharply under her breath while squinting in the direction of the newcomer at the bus stop.

The man wearing the Stetson most certainly didn’t blend into the pruned, tamed and manicured landscaping of Holly Mount subdivision. Not a bit. In fact, with his faded chambray work shirt, tight jeans and scuffed cowboy boots, he didn’t appear to come from anywhere near Ellis Springs, Georgia. He rather looked as if he’d ridden right out of the wild West. The only things missing were a lariat, a faithful cow pony and a herding dog.

He bent to receive an exuberant farewell hug from the last little girl to board the bus. It was the final day of the school year, and joy showed on the child’s face. Witnessing the simple parent-child scene set off an old familiar pain. Neesa winced, mentally chiding herself to quit dwelling on her own biological deficiencies.

As he straightened, the cowboy looked directly at Neesa, whose open convertible idled in the opposite lane facing the bus.

Her breath caught sharply in her throat. Within the few seconds that he held her gaze, she felt vulnerable, wished she hadn’t put the ragtop down this morning. Wished too that she had, at least, the scant protection of sun glasses, for his dark eyes seemed to knowingly plumb the depths of her very soul.

Plumb the depths of her very soul.

How silly. The June sun was beginning to addle her brains.

It was just an accidental glance, for goodness sakes. And he was a stranger. An ordinary suburban dad. Probably happily married. With two point five kids, a hefty mortgage and golf clubs in the back of a minivan. The cowboy duds would be purely for macho show.

What special powers could he have to know her deepest vulnerabilities? What interest at all could he have in her? She swallowed hard.

“You’re drooling on the steering wheel!” The lilting voice of Claire English, her best friend, neighbor and carpool companion, startled Neesa back into the here and now. “And besides, the bus driver’s turned off the blinking red lights. Git, girl.”

The bus slowly passed them, going in the opposite direction. As Neesa took her foot off the brake, she glanced at the bus stop one more time. The tennis-skirted moms were hovering about the man in the Stetson like long-legged moths to a flame. Obviously he didn’t need yet another admirer.

“Isn’t that a picture?” Claire asked merrily. “Do you suppose he’ll hightail it back to his ranch come Monday morning, or will the lovely ladies-who-lunch lure him into staying? Turn him into their very own suburban cowboy?”

“He doesn’t live here?” Neesa knew Claire would only need one question to get her started.

Her friend inhaled deeply as if she were preparing for the tale she had to tell. Claire English knew everything about their subdivision neighbors. And she liked nothing better than to share her observations with Neesa.

“No, he doesn’t live here. His name’s Hank Whittaker. He’s baby-sitting the Russell kids today through Sunday while Evan and Cilla are out of town, working on their marriage.”

Turning out of the subdivision onto the state road, Neesa remembered from Claire’s past tales that the Russell relationship was rocky. She didn’t want to talk about the Russells, however. “Is Mr. Whittaker really a rancher, or were you just guessing?” She had an ulterior motive in asking.

“Oh, he’s a rancher, all right. Raises and trains logging horses on a spread off Route 176. A big spread, I hear tell.”

Neesa’s professional antennae went up, but she tried not to appear too concerned, for Claire would certainly misinterpret her interest in the handsome cowboy. “Well, he doesn’t quite fit the nanny type,” she offered nonchalantly.

“My, my, if that’s not the truth.” Claire chortled. “Did you get a look at the fit of his jeans?”

Neesa hadn’t. Not really. She’d been lost, instead, in his eyes. Eyes the color of midnight. Intense and probing. With a hint of arrogance. No...not arrogance. Something subtler. More intricate. An aloofness that most probably would coincide with his occupation. Unless she missed her guess, rancher Hank Whittaker was a loner. Someone so sure of the distance between himself and others that he wouldn’t shrink from staring into a woman’s soul.

She shivered. She didn’t like having her soul examined.

Pressing her foot to the accelerator, she skillfully maneuvered the car along the winding two-lane. The wind loosened strands of hair from the clasp at the back of her neck. She loved driving her little roadster with the top down, and she loved driving fast. It was a way of easing, for a brief time, the pressure of professional challenges and the ache of personal worries.

With her thumb she rubbed the bare ring finger of her left hand. Force of habit. Why, after a year, should it still pain her that the wedding band was gone?

“Are we in a hurry this morning?” That was Claire’s hint to slow down. They played this game every time it was Neesa’s turn to drive. Claire liked her gossip quick and breezy, not her commute.

“In fact, we are.” Neesa sighed heavily. “I need every extra minute I can squeeze out of today. Unless I come up with a sponsor—and soon—for my Kids & Animals program idea, my supervisor’s going to make me abandon it. Trouble is, I have to find the sponsor on my own time. Between regular client appointments and paperwork.”

“But that idea’s a wonderful enrichment program. So many of the kids would benefit from it.”

“How I know it. But if I can’t find a sponsor, I can’t even get a pilot program off the ground. And until I can do that, my idea remains a creative frill.”

There were far too few frills in the lives of the kids Neesa dealt with daily. She grimaced. And unfortunately, these particular children experienced far too few of life’s necessities, as well. She worked for an unusual private group that helped government agencies find homes—both permanent and temporary—for hard-to-place kids. Kids with emotional problems. Kids with physical problems. Kids who might not ever have a loving home. If she couldn’t find them homes, she tried to find support programs to help them cope with life in a state-run institution.

She’d planned her Kids & Animals idea as just such a support program. For the children consistently left behind.

“I’m amazed you haven’t already thought of this!” Claire exclaimed.

“What?”

“Our temporary neighbor. Rancher Hank Whittaker.”

“What about him?”

“Ranch. Animals. Kids.” Claire beamed. “Duh!”

“But how to approach him?” Neesa tapped one finger rhythmically on the steering wheel. “I don’t know the man. He’s not even one of our neighbors. I can’t very well walk up to him and ask him for this huge commitment before the introductions are cold.”

“Use your imagination. Isn’t that what your agency pays you for?” Claire chuckled. “For instance, the pool opens tomorrow. The Russell kids are part fish. Wear your sunblock and play your cards right, and you’ll have the weekend to meet Gary Cooper, then convince him to sponsor Kids & Animals. His ranch would be perfect.”

Oh, Neesa had already thought of that. But an uneasy feeling made her hesitate before acting upon her thoughts. Heretofore, she’d never held back from a work-related challenge. Never hesitated to approach anyone who might be of help to her kids in need. What held her back now, however, was that long soulful stare she’d received just minutes ago. Something told her that in getting involved with Hank Whittaker—even professionally—she would be getting much more than she’d bargained for.

Lordy, but the suburbs were like an alien planet to him. Even the flower-lined sidewalks, swept and edged and weeded so that they formed a pristine ribbon throughout the neighborhood, seemed too unreal to walk on.

Having extracted himself from the bevy of moms at the bus stop, Hank Whittaker strode down the middle of the street to his cousin Evan Russell’s driveway and his own pickup truck. He had a full day’s worth of work to get in at his ranch before Casey and Chris Russell got home from school.

A full day’s work, that is, if he could concentrate around the image of the beautiful, blue-eyed woman in the tiny red sports car. Sakes alive, but he’d felt drawn to her. Instantly.

Such hogwash.

The only time he’d ever heard a real, living, breathing person tell of love at first sight was when his Pa, Jeb Whittaker, told the tale of the first time he’d seen Miss Lily, newly moved to Oklahoma, with her family at a square dance. Miss Lily had been so homesick for Georgia, and Jeb had been so smitten by the lovely Southern belle, that he’d determined right then and there that he’d be the one to carry her back to the state of her birth. He’d be the one to see her then-sad eyes light up and her beautiful face blossom into a smile. A week after Jeb had met Lily, he’d asked for her hand in marriage. A month later, married, they were settled in Georgia. And until his death, not two months after hers, Jeb Whittaker loved his wife with a blazing intensity. The love at first sight never diminished one iota.

Hank shook his head as he climbed into his truck. Fairy tales.

From experience he knew that far too many relationships—including Jeb and Lily’s—ultimately ended in the pain of loss.

Grumpily, he maneuvered his way out of the subdivision. His grumpiness didn’t arise from the weekend task at hand. He loved being with the Russell kids. They were part of his extended family. And he certainly didn’t mind doing a favor for cousin Evan and his wife Cilia if it meant they could patch up their marriage. But this living in big houses on tiny lots with your neighbors knowing your every move gave him the creeps. He liked his privacy. Even his hundred-acre ranch, with subdivisions increasingly ringing its borders, seemed too small at times. Just maybe he’d be the Whittaker brother to pull up stakes and buy a truly big spread out West.

Out West. The source of all his Pa’s tales. The source of the magnificent Whittaker boys’ childhood fantasies.

Not more than ten miles down the road from the Holly Mount subdivision, Hank turned his truck onto a dirt road and under a rustic arch hung with a sign that read Whispering Pines. His ranch. His refuge from a too quickly changing world.

Breathing a hearty sigh of relief, he drove between the fenced, rolling pastures toward home. In the distance he heard the soft nicker of his horses. Percherons. Red Suffolks. Draft horses that he bred, raised and trained to be loggers. In the old tradition.

He smiled to himself. Pa had always said that cowboy was a state of mind. Hank had carried that concept one step further. It was next to impossible to recreate a Western ranch in the foothills of the Piedmont, amid the tall Georgia pines. But if you believed that ranching was a constantly evolving state of mind, anything became possible.

The sprawling ranch house, ringed with pecan trees, came into view. To the right Tucker, his apprentice, worked an enormous gray Percheron in the paddock. To the left, near the kitchen garden, Willy, his foreman, waved his hat and shouted curses as a very large pot-bellied pig, a plume of red dust in his wake, ran for high ground.

Hank was in for one of Willy’s lectures.

Pulling his pickup truck in front of the bam, he waited a minute before getting out. Composed his facial features to eliminate any sign of a grin. Willy hated it when Hank didn’t take the feud between the foreman and the pig seriously.

“What the hell you doin’ back?” Willy’s weatherbeaten, toothless face popped up at the driver’s side window.

“Heard you needed help with a pig.”

Willy squinted and examined Hank’s face, most probably looking for any hint of amusement. “One of these days I’m gonna have Reba cook me up some pork chops.”

“You won’t. Reba loves that pig, and you love Reba.” Reba was Hank’s housekeeper and Willy’s unrequited love. Winking at the old man, Hank opened the truck door, then slid out. “No pig...no Reba.”

Willy spat a string of curses under his breath.

“To answer your question,” Hank continued, unable to suppress a smile, “I came back to work the ranch until Casey and Chris get out of school.”

Willy scowled. “No need. That young whippersnapper Tucker and me, we got it under control.”

“I don’t doubt it. But I couldn’t spend one more minute than necessary in that cramped subdivision. Not with folks living right on top of me. Breathing down my neck.”

Willy looked down at his boots. Scuffed one toe in the dust. “Kinda hoped you’d meet a purty woman,” he muttered.

An image of the beautiful blonde in the sports car sprang unbidden to mind. “Now why would you want that?” Hank asked defensively.

“Tucker and I can handle the logging horses and the grain fields. Reba’s got the house in hand. You need someone to occupy your heart so you stop bringing strays—like that damned pig—onto this spread. As it is now, it’s more Noah’s ark than ranch.”

As if on cue, a barn cat with her litter of kittens paraded across the packed dirt of the barnyard, then wound herself around Hank’s legs. Trying to shake off the image of the woman at the bus stop, he bent and picked up the ginger mama. “Are you trying to tell me we don’t need a few good mousers?”

“Mousers are one thing. Vietnamese pot-bellied pigs are another. And hissy-spitting llamas. And crippled mules. And half-blind dogs. And mean Canada geese.” Willy threw his arms in the air in obvious exasperation. “And any other wounded, abused or abandoned animal you can think to haul back here.” He jammed his fists on bony hips, leaned forward and skewered Hank with a one-eyed Popeye stare. “Hell, you spend almost as much time on these castoffs as you spend on your legitimate business.”

“Your point?” Hank tried to look stern, but failed as the ginger cat licked the tip of his chin. He respected Willy too much to remind the foreman that he had been one of the “castoffs” Hank had rescued.

“The point, as if you didn’t know, is that a man needs something to love, sure. But it should be a woman.”

A sudden slice of pain across his heart, Hank gently put the mama cat down in the midst of her mewling kittens. Years ago he thought he had found a woman to love, only to find out she didn’t love him enough to live the hard but rewarding life of a rancher’s wife.

“Well, you’re out of luck,” he replied with a forced grin. “I didn’t see a woman that so much as even tweaked my curiosity.”

Lie.

Willy rolled his eyes. “Well, if you plan to continue sleeping with the dogs, Bowser needs a flea bath. Bad. Like today.” He turned in a huff, then stumped across the yard toward the barn, muttering under his breath every step of the way.

Hank shook his head. Willy made it seem as if his boss’s single state was some kind of degenerate condition. He yanked his Stetson off and rubbed his forehead. The ranch’s Noah’s ark aspect, as Willy referred to it, took no time at all. What chewed up the moments was the foreman’s infernal and constant confrontations on the topic of women. His insistence that an unmarried state was an unnatural state.

Heading for the ranch house and a ton of paperwork, Hank slapped his hat against his thigh in frustration. It was easy for Willy to comment. He loved Reba. A good-hearted country woman. There weren’t many women like her. Women who loved the life Hank lived. Who loved the solitude, the lack of city or suburban lights. Who loved hard physical work. And the animals. Both the purebreds and the strays.

Despite those challenges, Hank had a deep, dark secret that he wouldn’t admit to Willy: he was ready to settle down. He had a thriving business, his own ranch and money in the bank. He’d love to find that perfect woman, get married and raise a whole passle of energetic kids. A family of his own.

He thought miserably of the delicate blue-eyed suburban beauty in her little red convertible. For the life of him, he couldn’t picture her on a ranch.

Feeling uneasy for more than one reason, Neesa rang the Russell doorbell again. This was a pretty sneaky way to get Kids & Animals sponsored. She hugged the warm casserole tightly to her. With this little delivery she hoped merely to extend a neighborly hand...and have Mr. Whittaker admit to being a rancher. She could take the “coincidence” from there.

Normally she’d come right out and say, I heard you were a rancher. I need your help. But a faintly formidable look in this man’s eyes told her he wouldn’t appreciate her listening to gossip about him or asking for favors—very large favors—before the introductions were cold.

The door opened. At the sight of handsome Hank Whittaker looming above her, Neesa nearly lost her grip on the dish of chicken and dumplings. Oh, my, but the man was twice as imposing up close as he had been from a distance. And even without the Stetson to shadow his eyes, his gaze was dark and penetrating. Riveting her attention and rendering her speechless.

“Yes?” The hint of a smile played at the corner of his sensuous mouth.

“M-Mr. Whittaker...”

“Hank.”

“Hank.” She inhaled sharply. “I’m Neesa Little from up the street. I understand you’re caring for Carey and Chris for the weekend.”

The hint of a smile developed into a broad, sexy grin. “Word travels fast.”

“Yes,” she whispered almost inaudibly, extending the casserole. “I thought you could use some supper.” Under his grin and those devilishly dark eyes, she found it hard to concentrate, let alone form a coherent sentence. “Just being neighborly,” she added weakly.

“Why, thank you.” He chuckled, and the sound was even sexier than the sight of the grin. “Step in and let’s see if we can find room.”

“Room?”

He opened the door wider, then stepped aside to allow her to enter the foyer. She always felt a little uncomfortable when she visited her neighbors—except for Claire and Robert who were childless but “trying.” These homes were enclaves of kids and more kids and even more kids, and always drove home Neesa’s own unmarried, perennially childless state.