his gaze to the neatly plowed rows between the thick, plentiful six-foot-tall bushes. “More like a blackberry farm or something out of the Napa Valley.” Which was a far cry from the ranch he and his family had always intended it to be, before he and his siblings had been forced to sell during probate, after his parents’ death, years ago.
He sighed. “But it will be easy to get the berry picker through.” Although he wasn’t looking forward to the tedious work of driving that tractor and hauling crates of produce around. He would be much happier on the back of a horse, or even out on the land repairing fence, than trying to care for the delicate fruit.
Nodding in agreement, Gannon followed Clint inside. “Rose seems happy.”
Pushing the image of the feisty woman with the delectable curves out of his mind, Clint cracked open two beers. “Tell me about it.”
They toasted each other silently and then sat down at the kitchen island. “She’s wanted to get her hands on all those berries for years,” Gannon told him. “It was such a shame, seeing them all go to seed.”
Clint snorted derisively, aware he’d been able to sidestep Rose’s requests the year before, after acquiring the property, simply by not being around during the harvest season. “Had the birds not been given free rein with them, they might not have spread to the degree they have.”
“I sense you’re irritated with my sister-in-law?”
Clint chose his words carefully. “Let’s just say I have never met a woman so determined to have her own way.”
“Or as likely to get it by whatever means necessary,” Gannon deadpanned. “But, as Lily would say, that’s part of her sister’s charm. Or it has been since she was left with three kids to bring up entirely on her own.”
Clint paused to take that in. “Rose’s ex-husband isn’t involved?”
Gannon shook his head, his expression grim. “Barry walked away clean nearly three years ago, right after their divorce.”
Clint exhaled. “That’s rough.”
“So you can understand, then, why Rose is as single-minded as she is.”
“Because she has to be.”
Gannon nodded.
Clint admired a woman who went all out to provide for her family. That didn’t mean, however, that he had to like the way Rose went about her dealings with him. He’d been down this road before. Almost married a woman who didn’t just love being in the midst of excitement and drama but created it wherever she went. No way was he getting involved with someone like that again. Even if it was a woman as beautiful and feisty as Rose.
The two finished their beers and traded invoices.
“When are you going to get your ranch up and running?” Gannon asked.
“If it all turns out the way Rose is predicting—” Clint was holding his breath on that one “—and I get even half the cash she is promising...I’m hoping for early fall.”
And then it would be bye-bye to the farming he had never wanted to do—and renting out his neighbor’s land—and hello to horse and cattle ranching on the Double Creek, the way it was meant to be.
In the meantime, he had to deal with Rose McCabe.
And the delivery of the berry picker from the tractor dealership the following day. It arrived, as promised, shortly after nine in the morning. Clint half expected Rose to be there, too.
She wasn’t.
While the sunny May morning was unexpectedly quiet, Swifty unloaded the big machine from the flatbed trailer, showed Clint how to use it and took off.
Deciding maybe this wasn’t so bad after all, Clint loaded up the machine with heavy-duty plastic fruit crates, turned the engine on and headed for the field.
He’d barely made it down one row when the next surprise came. And the quiet morning outdoors that he’d been looking forward to vanished. Just like that.
* * *
CLINT SUFFERED THROUGH the day only because he had promised Farmtech, the local dealership and the produce co-op that he would.
As soon as the day’s activity concluded, however, he headed inside his ranch house to get cleaned up.
And then, determined to get a few things straight before anything else unexpected happened, he made his way to Rose Hill Farm.
Until now, he had seen Rose’s seventy-five-acre property only from a distance. As he passed beneath the wrought-iron archway, he could not help but be impressed. The rolling green pastureland was surrounded by neat white fence. Stately oak trees lined the drive that led to a small white Cape Cod–style bungalow with a dark-gray roof, cranberry-red shutters and a pine door. A huge new red barn, emblazoned with the Rose Hill Farm logo, sat behind that.
Rosebushes bloomed on either side of the front walk.
Bracing himself for whatever came next, he moved up the broad stone steps leading to the house and rang the bell.
There was a struggle with the lock on the other side. Then the front door swung open. The smell of something incredibly delicious—cornbread maybe—wafted out. A tyke-size McCabe stared up at him.
“Mommy!” the preschooler bellowed at the top of his lungs. “It’s a man!” He craned his little head back as far as it would go. “And he’s real big!”
Compared to the little one, Clint felt big. Although, at six foot four, he felt that way often.
Something clattered loudly—like a dropped metal pan in the kitchen. “Stephen!” Rose called out, sounding upset. She rushed around the corner, her hands buried in a dish towel. “I told you not to answer the...” She skidded to a halt midfoyer. Swallowed, cheeks pink. “Clint.”
Aware he had never seen her—or imagined her—quite so harried, he moved his gaze over her cloud of chin-length dark-blond curls. She wore no makeup that he could see but was absolutely gorgeous just the same. She had on jeans, sneakers, a flattering peach button-up blouse and a ridiculously frilly and flowery apron over that.
He resisted the urge to tell her about the smudge of flour on one cheek. He was here on business, he reminded himself sternly. “Got a minute? I need to talk to you.”
She crumpled the dish towel in her hand. “Ah...”
Two little girls appeared at her side. “Mommy, I’m hungry!” said the first.
The other complained, “You said dinner was ready.”
Rose assured them with a smile, “It is.”
The children’s anxiety allayed, she turned back to Clint and waved him forward. “Come on in. I don’t think you’ve ever met my triplets,” she said, shutting the door behind him.
“Kids, this is Mr. McCulloch. Clint, this is Stephen.” Rose pointed to her son. Clearly all boy, with short brown hair and dark eyes, he was clad in jeans and a Longhorns football T-shirt.
