the past three months, Annette Reed had become like a big sister. Annette and her husband were trying to have kids; meanwhile they doted on Evan, helping create the extended family he’d never had. Annette was a blessing in their lives, even if she was slow to embrace Hannah’s “bright side” philosophy. The other woman didn’t fully understand that the determined optimism was the only thing that had kept Hannah going during the bleakest period of her life, that Hannah owed it to her son to prove good things could happen if you worked hard enough.
“Sweetie, please be careful,” Annette entreated. “You wouldn’t be the first woman in the world to get in trouble because she confused a hot guy on a motorcycle with destiny.”
“Hot guy?” Hannah froze, glancing out the window into the dark, as if making sure Colin Cade couldn’t overhear them. Which was insane since he was a quarter of a mile away, and she was locked into her house with a watchdog for company. “I never said he was hot.”
“Not in so many words, but it was in your tone. What’s he look like?”
Dark, with that shaggy, rich brown hair and unshaven jaw. Chiseled. And she didn’t just mean the muscles outlined beneath his T-shirt. His features, though striking, looked as if they’d been carved from stone. Had the man ever smiled in his life? Not that it matters. Being charming wasn’t a job requirement. She needed someone efficient and unflinching in the face of setbacks.
“He has blue eyes,” she said noncommittally. Light blue with a hint of green. “And he’s tall.”
Her friend guffawed. “Next to you, sweetie, everyone’s tall.”
She ignored the crack about her height. “Annette, this isn’t me getting my hopes up for no reason. The guy came here specifically looking for me, looking for this ranch.” Granted, Colin had seemed more shell-shocked than enthusiastic when he’d realized he found her. “An old friend of Colin’s told him I was hiring and he wanted more information.” She’d kept her answers in the bunkhouse brief and cheerful, barely mentioning Henry White, the well-intentioned, semiretired ranch hand who came by at least twice a week.
“Did you tell him the truth?”
“More or less,” she said, hearing the defensive note in her tone. “I mean, I didn’t volunteer that today was my fifth bank meeting and that I got turned down again. I said that I’d inherited a family ranch, have plans to turn it into a cross between a small dude ranch and bed-and-breakfast but have yet to put together a staff.” Unless one counted seventy-year-old Henry and his wife, Kitty. “I invited him to the main house for breakfast so we can discuss details. I’m making my homemade coffee cake.”
“Ah. Pulling out the big guns, then.”
Hell, yes.
As far back as Hannah could remember, she’d always had a plan. Her first one had been Get Adopted. That one had never worked out, but years later, for one shining moment in time, her marriage had made her part of a family. Eyes stinging, she batted away the memories and focused on the present. Current plan: rehabilitate the ranch that had been in her late husband’s family, build it into a legacy for her son. And to do that, she needed Colin Cade.
She was a persistent woman looking to hire help, and he was a man with ranch experience who needed a job. A match made in heaven! How hard could it possibly be to convince him to stay?
* * *
“GOOD MORNING!”
Colin hesitated on the bottom step of the wraparound porch, momentarily stunned by Hannah’s brilliant smile. And bright yellow peasant blouse. She would be murder on a man with a hangover.
As he’d mulled over the circumstances last night, he’d tried to keep thinking of her as the Widow Shaw, but he couldn’t reconcile that moniker with the woman who’d stepped outside of the two-story house to meet him. She looked as fresh as a spring morning with her feet bare, revealing hot-pink toenails, and her inky hair pulled high in a ponytail. If it hadn’t been for the jeans she wore and the pair of muddy boots sitting on the porch, he would seriously question whether she actually owned this place.
Behind her, on the other side of the screen door, an unseen dog scrabbled against the metal lower half and barked. Hannah shushed the canine over her shoulder, then flashed another sun-bright beam in Colin’s direction. “Don’t worry, Scarlett doesn’t bite. Come on in—breakfast is ready and waiting.”
Even from outside the house, the food smelled too enticing, making his stomach growl in anticipation. He was reminded of the fairy tale he used to read his younger sister. Hansel and Gretel. Hannah’s house might not be made out of candy, but temptation was present just the same.
Then again, she had a job to offer him. It was imperative that Colin stay busy. He needed physically draining, sunup-to-sundown work.
Resigned, he followed her through the front door. “Holy sh—” He broke off, manners belatedly overcoming his shock. “That’s...some dog.”
Hannah knelt down, patting the dog’s head. “Meet Scarlett.”
Yesterday, Colin had thought Hannah’s truck an eyesore. Next to the dog, it was a luxury sedan. He’d seen “patchwork” mutts before with traits from different breeds that looked a little mismatched. Scarlett went beyond mixed-breed. She was FrankenDog. It was as if someone had placed a disproportionately large German shepherd head on a squat body—not an attractive head, either. The dog had a comically pronounced underbite and her ears weren’t parallel. One black ear stood up atop her head, as was common with shepherds, and the other seemed to stick straight out of the side of her skull. What were the legs, basset hound? Her red-and-white coat couldn’t decide whether it was supposed to be curly or straight, and her tail was a brindle-colored whip that didn’t match anything else on her. He assumed her neck bolts were hidden beneath the bright blue collar.
“Scarlett,” he echoed. He would’ve gone with “Hellhound,” although that did imply a creature weighing more than forty pounds.
Hearing her name, the dog whined and smacked him with her wagging tail.
“She likes you. That’s a good sign,” Hannah declared as she stood, leading him through a spacious living room with a stone fireplace. He got a glimpse of a back hallway and a set of stairs, but she led him past that and into the kitchen. “I’m not a superstitious person, but everything about our meeting has been so lucky.”
He kept his response to a vague grunt she could take either way. It was probably best not to argue with a potential employer, but mountainside storms and mutant dogs didn’t strike him as auspicious omens.
“Hope you’re hungry. I love to cook. Before I came here, I was a pastry chef.”
“Big change.”
“True, but I’d been studying ranches for years. Running this place was always the plan. Besides, I couldn’t have stayed at my last job much longer.” She scowled. “My boss—never mind. We should be eating,” she chirped.
He was reluctantly fascinated by her total about-face. It was as though she’d flipped a switch. One moment, she’d clearly been remembering something unpleasant, anger seeping into her tone, then, boom, she was back to beaming like a lottery winner.
Maybe she was schizophrenic.
Aware that he was on the
