Stella Bagwell
STELLA BAGWELL has written more than seventy novels. She credits her loyal readers and hopes her stories have brightened their lives in some small way. A cowgirl through and through, she loves to watch old Westerns, and has recently learned how to rope a steer. Her days begin and end helping her husband care for a beloved herd of horses on their little ranch located on the south Texas coast. When she’s not ropin’ and ridin’, you’ll find her at her desk, creating her next tale of love. The couple have a son, who is a maths teacher and athletic coach.
To my sissy, Thelma Foster.
To have a sister like you is to be truly blessed.
I love you.
The moment Quint Cantrell walked through the door of his grandfather’s ranch house, he got the eerie feeling that something was wrong.
At this time of the early evening Abe was usually watching the news on the small television situated in a corner of the cozy living room. Instead, the old man’s leather recliner was empty and the TV screen was black.
Uneasy, Quint started to call out, but stopped as he caught the sound of a radio coming from the direction of the kitchen. As he quickly strode toward the back of the house, he realized with another start that the singer was Billie Holiday.
What the heck was going on around this place? His grandfather liked music, but certainly not that kind! And the house held the peculiar scent of roses instead of pipe tobacco and old boots.
Rounding the open doorway to the kitchen, he practically skidded to a halt as he spotted a woman standing at the cabinet counter. Yesterday, while he’d been eating lunch at the Blue Mesa, a family acquaintance had stopped by his table and mentioned that a rumor was going around about a woman staying out at Apache Wells. Quint had laughingly dismissed the idea as nothing more than a wild rumor. Since his grandmother had passed away fifteen years ago, the only females who ever stepped foot in this house were Quint’s mother or sister. Hell freezing over would be more likely to happen than a woman living in Abe’s house. Or so Quint had believed.
Stunned by this turn of events, Quint stared.
Tall and slender with hair the color of a black cherry hanging nearly to her waist, she was dressed casually in blue jeans and a green Western shirt with darker green flowers dotting the yokes and cuffs. If her face looked anything like her backside, Quint decided, she was definitely a pretty woman.
“Uh—excuse me, ma’am.”
Obviously surprised by the sound of his voice, the woman whirled around to stare at him. Her dark eyes were wide, and her lips parted as she took a halting step in his direction.
“Oh! I didn’t realize anyone had come in,” she said in a breathy voice. “You gave me a fright.”
He stepped forward and even though his gaze was focused solely on her, he knew his grandfather wasn’t in the room. He also realized his initial guess had been correct. The woman was pretty—though quietly so. Like a violet hidden beneath a clump of sagebrush, it might take a second look to find the beauty, but it was there.
“I could say the same about you,” he replied, his eyes sliding over her face. She appeared vaguely familiar. “It’s not every day I walk into my grandfather’s house and find a woman. Who are you, anyway?”
Her lips, which were full and dusky pink, twisted ever so slightly. “I’m sorry. I urged Abe to warn you about me, but you know that he pretty much does things his own way. He wanted me to be a surprise,” she said with a mixture of amusement and regret. “As to who I am, I thought you might recognize me. But I suppose I’ve been away from Lincoln County too long for you to remember.”
So his earlier assumption had been right. He had met the woman before. But where? he wondered, as his gaze scanned her dark green eyes, high cheekbones and heart-shaped face. She was definitely easy to look at, he realized, and then his memory kicked in like a startled mule. Hellfire, she was one of the Donovan bunch! A rich, rough and rowdy family that owned a notable horse farm down in the Hondo Valley.
“I remember now,” he said. “You’re one of the Donovan brood. A nurse. You were at the hospital when my sister had her baby.”
She inclined her head forward. “That’s right. I’m Maura—second oldest of six siblings. You’ve probably seen us around from time to time.”
Shrugging, he wondered why her suggestion made him feel like a recluse. “I don’t do much socializing anymore. But I know your brothers and sisters. Bridget is my mother’s doctor.”
She nodded. “Bridget is very good at her job. And very busy.”
Folding his arms against his chest, Quint glanced beyond her shoulder to where a pot of something was simmering on the stove. It was filling the whole room with the scent of chicken and spices. Where was Jim, the old bunkhouse cook who usually prepared his grandfather’s meals? And why in the world would a Donovan be here at his grandfather’s ranch?
“Yesterday, when someone in town told me that a woman was staying on the ranch, I practically called him a liar.” Quint shook his head as he tried to assemble the questions running rampant in it. “I don’t mean to sound meddlesome, but why are you here? And where is Gramps?”
Her breasts rose and fell as she drew in a deep breath, then blew it out. His questions appeared to make her uncomfortable, which only roused his curiosity even more.
“Abe is down at the ranch yard visiting with the hands,” she answered. “And I’m here because I live here now. With your grandfather, as his nurse.”
If she’d whacked Quint’s shins with an ax handle, the shock couldn’t have been any greater. He sputtered. “His nurse!”
“That’s right,” she said smoothly, then quickly added, “Excuse me, would you? I need to tend to the soup.”
Dazed by her revelation, Quint watched her turn to the cookstove, where she stirred a bubbling pot with a wooden spoon. Her movements seemed so casual, that he got the feeling
