been invited to the ceremony and reception, but he’d graciously declined and sent a gift instead. The only people attending were family and a few close friends, so Ian would have felt out of place—for more reasons than one. So he’d remained on the ranch.
Now, as darkness settled over Brighton Valley, he did what he often did in the evenings after dinner. He sat on the front porch of his small cabin and enjoyed the peaceful evening sounds, the scent of night-blooming jasmine and the vast expanse of stars in the Texas sky.
The Leaning R had been in Carly’s family for years. It was run-down now, but it had great potential. It was also the perfect place for Ian to hide out, where people only knew him as a quiet cowboy who felt more comfortable around livestock than the bright lights of the big cities. And thanks to his granddaddy, who’d once owned a respectable spread near Dallas, that was true.
He glanced at the Australian shepherd puppy nestled in his lap. The sleepy pooch yawned, then stretched and squirmed.
“What’s the matter, Cheyenne?” He stroked her black-and-white furry head. “Is your snooze over?”
When the pup gave a little yip, Ian set her down and watched as she padded around the wooden flooring, taking time to sniff at the potted geranium on the porch, her stub of a tail wagging. Then she waddled down the steps.
“Don’t wander off too far,” he told her. “It’s dark out there, and you’re still getting the lay of the land.”
The pup glanced at him, as if she understood what he was saying, then trotted off.
Ian loved dogs. He’d grown up with several of them on his granddad’s ranch, but after he’d moved out on his own, he hadn’t been able to have one until now. Fortunately, his life was finally lining up the way he’d always hoped it would. Once the Leaning R went on the market, as Carly’s brother said it would, Ian was prepared to buy it. As the trustee and executor of the Rayburn family estate, Jason was in charge now. The only thing holding him back from listing the property was getting Carly and their brother Braden to agree to the sale.
But Braden had his own spread about ten miles down the road, and Carly had no intention of being a rancher. When she’d left Brighton Valley the last time, she’d been hell-bent on making a name for herself. With her talent, there was no reason she wouldn’t. There was always a price for fame, though, and Ian just hoped she was willing to pay it.
He reached for his guitar, which rested beside him near the cabin window, and settled it into his lap. As he strummed the new song he’d written, the chords filled the peaceful night. He might love ranching, but that didn’t mean he’d given up music altogether. He just played for pleasure these days, in the evenings after a long workday. He’d learned the hard way that it beat the hell out of opening a bottle of whiskey to relax.
Now, as he sat outside singing the words to the tune he’d written about love gone wrong, he waited for Carly to return from the wedding she’d come home to attend, waited to see if anything had changed. To see if, by some strange twist of fate, she’d decided that she wanted something different out of life.
He’d only played a few bars when his cell phone rang. He set the guitar aside and answered on the third ring.
“Hey, Mac,” the graveled smoker’s voice said. “How’s it going?”
It was Uncle Roy, one of the few people who called him Mac and who knew how to contact him. “Not bad. How’s everything in Sarasota? How are Grandma and Granddad?”
“They’re doing just fine. Mama’s cholesterol is a bit high, but the doctor put her on some medication to lower it. Other than that, they’re settling into retired life out here in Florida and making friends.”
Ian was glad to hear it, although he’d been sorry when his grandparents had sold the family ranch. But his granddad had put in a long, successful life, first as a rodeo cowboy, then as a rancher. And Grandma had always wanted to live near the water. So Ian couldn’t blame him for selling the place and moving closer to his sole remaining son—even if Ian felt more like his uncle’s sibling than a nephew.
“Say,” Roy said, “I called to let you know that it’ll be their fiftieth wedding anniversary next month—on the fifteenth. So me and your aunt Helen are planning a party for them. We’re going to try to keep it a surprise, although I’m not sure if we can pull it off. But it’d be great if you could come.”
“I’ll be there.” Ian wasn’t sure what he’d do about finding someone to look after the Leaning R for him, but there was no way he’d miss celebrating with the couple who’d raised him.
“Dad said you’re thinking about buying that place where you’ve been working,” Roy added.
“That’s my plan.”
“You made an offer yet?”
“Not yet.” But Ian was ready to jump the minute the place was officially on the market.
“What’s the holdup?”
“The ranch is held by a trust, and the trustees are three half siblings. They’re not quite in agreement about selling. At least, they didn’t used to be. I think it’s finally coming together now.”
“What was the holdup?”
“A couple of them wanted it to stay in the family, but no one was willing to move in and take over.”
Uncle Roy seemed to chew on that for a while, then asked, “You sure it’s a good deal?”
“Damned straight. The widow of the man who originally owned it took good care of it, but her grandson, the previous trustee, was some sort of big-shot, corporate-exec type who let it go to the dogs. It’s a shame, too. You should have seen what it once was—and what it could become again with a little love and cash. I’m looking forward to having the right to invest in it the way Mrs. Rayburn would have if she were still alive.”
“Well, Helen and I’ll be praying for you. I hope it all works out. I know having your own place and running a spread has been a dream of yours for a long time.”
And that dream had grown stronger these past three years. “Thanks, Uncle Roy.”
“Never did understand why you wanted to give up the good life, though. Dad says you were always a rancher at heart and not a performer. And he knows you best. But damn, boy. You sure could play and sing.”
Ian still could. It was the fame he’d never liked. He’d always been an introvert, and even though he hadn’t been the lead singer in the group, the gigs had gotten harder and harder to handle without a couple of shots of tequila to get him through the night.
So when the lights had grown too bright, the crowds too big and his fear of following in his alcoholic father’s stumbling boot steps too real, he’d left the groupies and Nashville behind for the quiet life of a cowboy.
“Listen, I gotta go,” Roy said.
“Give everyone my love. I know it’s an hour later there and Granddad turns in early, so I’ll call them in the morning.”
“Don’t forget—that party’s a secret,” Roy added.
“I won’t.”
When
