was four years old—and that was just the beginning of his mischief at her expense. She was willing to concede that boys could be boys and grow up to be decent men. But jail time, well, that was an entirely different matter.
Up ahead through the trees she glimpsed the adjoining buildings that composed the heart of Hunter Enterprises—Hunter’s Hideaway. A family business for six generations if you included the offspring of her four siblings, Hunter’s Hideaway catered to hunters, horsemen, hikers and others who enjoyed spending time in the great outdoors.
Located not too far outside small-town Hunter Ridge, the property featured an inn, restaurant and general store. Guest cabins were scattered throughout a vast acreage that abutted National Forest Service property, and it was here that in addition to clerking, waiting tables and cleaning guest rooms, Rio managed seasonal trail and hay rides with assistance from a cousin and summer hires. But her cousin J.C., who she’d been counting on to take over for her when she headed back to college, had dashed off to chase his own rainbows.
So she was stuck here unless Cash proved capable of taking over her responsibilities. But even if he had the know-how to run the operation, how could she leave a man like him totally in charge? Hot tempers and ready fists wouldn’t mix well with horses, guests or staff. Knowing how she’d feel about the new hire, was this a ploy on Grandma’s part to keep her granddaughter from leaving?
As she stepped out from under the thick canopy of pine branches into a cloudless midmorning of the third week in May, she glimpsed a county sheriff’s department SUV off to the side of the parking lot. And gritted her teeth.
Deputy Braxton Turner leaned casually against the vehicle, shooting the breeze with her older brother Luke. Which tattletale told Brax she’d arrive home today? It wasn’t that she didn’t like him. He was a nice enough guy—the attention he focused on her not nearly as irksome as that of Jeb Greer’s son, Eliot, who’d recently returned for the summer—but she felt no sparks when in the company of either man. Nor did she, despite her best efforts, find trusting males outside the family an easy thing to do.
Besides, could neither of them see she had no intention of being trapped in a relationship that chained her to Hunter Ridge? She had a dream of helping others who, like herself, were victims of college dating violence. The last time she looked, though, tiny Hunter Ridge boasted no sprawling campus of higher learning where she could attain the needed counseling degree.
With a hasty wave in the direction of the two men, she dashed across the graveled parking lot, slowing to catch her breath when she reached the front porch entrance of the building that housed the inn and restaurant, as well as her grandmother’s apartment and office.
She smoothed her shirt, somewhat wrinkled from the California flight and a three-hour drive from Phoenix’s Sky Harbor airport. It had been an emotionally, physically and mentally exhausting retreat focused on spiritual preparation for those intending to minister in the area of dating and domestic violence. Not only had she learned more about the spiritual aspects of how to reach out to victims of dating violence, but she’d been pressed to prayerfully dig deep down inside and relive her own experiences and further confront her fears. Every minute would be worth it, though, if she could apply what she’d learned to helping others in the future, the first step being when she returned to college in the fall—keeping the vow she’d made to God in exchange for His saving her mother’s life after her cancer diagnosis.
With a silent, heartfelt prayer that she could convincingly express her concerns regarding Cash to Grandma Jo—and that she wasn’t too late—she pulled open the heavy wood door. But she was immediately forced back as a ball-capped boy of seven or eight pushed out past her.
“Joseph!” a male voice bellowed from inside. “Get back here.”
She peered into the dimly lit interior where a solidly built, broad-shouldered man rapidly approached from across the lobby. Dressed in dark jeans and a burgundy shirt, his head of jet-black hair topped by a Western hat, the grim set of his mouth clearly spelled out his exasperation.
Suddenly aware of someone holding open the door from which the child had bolted, the man paused, then touched the brim of his hat in acknowledgment. Midnight-dark eyes met hers with an unmistakable flicker of male interest, and her own betraying heart leaped in response to the approving appraisal. But his expression shuttered as he briskly nodded in the direction the escapee had taken.
“Pardon me, ma’am. I have a young’un to round up.”
He obviously didn’t recognize her after fourteen years. But she had no doubt as to his identity—and that she was too late to prevent Cashton Herrera from signing on at the Hideaway.
* * *
Cash couldn’t lose a single second in pursuing his son, but for some reason his booted feet remained glued to the floor as he looked down at the petite young woman.
She gazed up at him as if in recognition, but while he might not be in the market for a lady these days—he’d learned his lesson the hard way with a cheating ex-wife—he’d not likely have forgotten that long, sun-streaked blond hair scooped high in a cascading ponytail. Or the slightly crooked nose, sparkling blue eyes, and trim figure tucked into jeans and a light blue, fitted chambray shirt. Ear studs glimmered with silver and turquoise, a match to the Southwestern-styled watch gracing her wrist.
“So that was your boy, was it, who shot out of here like his pants were on fire?” Her voice was firm, direct. Like she knew him and was calling him out for an offense.
He’d sired Joseph Cashton Herrera when, at eighteen, he’d gotten involved with and married a pretty—and highly unpredictable—young woman. But the past forty-eight hours had been his first attempt at full-time, hands-on single parenting. As much as he’d dreamed of more time with his son, he hadn’t been given any warning that his ex would abruptly relinquish the child they shared. No time to prepare.
As a result, things weren’t going all that well.
“Yeah, Joey’s mine.” Had the youngster gotten himself into trouble and fled the scene while his beleaguered daddy was filling out employment forms that would keep a roof over their heads? Cash squinted one eye. “Why do you want to know?”
A tiny crease formed between the woman’s dark slash of brows. “No reason. Except I’m not surprised that a child of yours appears to be a handful. Kind of amusing, actually. What goes around comes around?”
He frowned. “Do we—”
“Rio! You’re back.”
Rio?
He turned to where his new employer, Josephine “Jo” Hunter, descended the staircase into the rustic inn and restaurant’s lobby, her hair swept atop her head and secured with combs as he remembered she’d always worn it. Somewhere around eighty, she nevertheless donned jeans and a collared shirt and carried herself as regally as she had during the three years Cash’s dad worked at Hunter’s Hideaway. She’d been kind to him back then. Even kinder now. At the moment, though, her challenging gaze rested on the young woman next to him.
He turned to stare at the blonde now offering what looked to be a forced smile.
This was Rio? Princess Rio? The spoiled, freckle-faced ripsnorter who’d shadowed him while he did his chores, got underfoot and dared him to try to do something about it? He’d landed in trouble more times than he cared to remember for taking desperate measures to keep her out of his hair.
She thrust out her hand. “Hey, Cash. Long
