The Prodigal Groom. Karen Leabo

had been lame.

      He could help Laurie. And if she was in financial straits, as it appeared she was, he could help her for a lot less salary than any other applicants who might wander to her door.

      Maybe it was a crazy thing to do, showing up in her life after four years. But for most of that time he’d been keeping track of her, reading about her in the Winnefred weekly newspaper and savoring bits of information reluctantly dragged from her brother, Danny. Those scraps weren’t enough anymore.

      He had to see her. He wanted to help her, and, hell, he owed her that much at least.

      Yeah, it was time. He put his truck into gear and turned into the driveway.

      

      Laurie stretched on tiptoes to fasten the corner of the last damp sheet to the clothesline. There, that task was done. But it had taken thirty minutes out of her day, thirty minutes she hadn’t planned on.

      Honestly, if it wasn’t one thing it was another. This morning the clothes dryer had quit abruptly. Replacing it was out of the question, given the state of her household budget. At least the spring weather was pleasant. She wondered how people without clothes dryers took care of their laundry in the middle of winter.

      “All done?” asked three-year-old Wendy. She was sitting in the empty laundry basket with two striped kittens in her lap, making Laurie wish she could run and get her camera. But there just wasn’t time.

      “All done,” she answered, plucking up one of the kittens and cuddling it under her chin. They were supposed to be barn cats, not house pets, kept solely to take care of the rodent population, but Wendy had relentlessly tamed them. “Want to help me weed the garden?”

      “Mmm, okay, but my tummy’s growling.”

      Laurie looked at her watch. Darn, it was almost noon. How had the morning gotten away from her? She still had to call the vet and find out if there was any news about Flash’s lab tests. And she had to check the answering machine to see if anyone had responded to the ad she’d placed in the Tyler paper.

      She half hoped no one would apply for the job. Although she was perilously close to financial disaster, she hated the thought of some stranger moving in and running things.

      After Charlie’s unexpected death, she had arrogantly assumed she could take over running the Folly. After all, she was a college graduate with retail management experience, and she’d lived and helped out at the Folly for four years. There was also Maurice, who’d been working the Folly for more than a decade, to help her.

      But she’d quickly discovered that managing a ranch wasn’t quite like managing a gift shop, which was what she’d done until she’d married Charlie. She’d had no clue as to which mares should be bred to which stud, or how much to pay for the service of this stud or that one, or when and how much to sell the horses for. While Charlie had kept meticulous records, Laurie had found them less intelligible than a physics textbook. There just didn’t seem to be a pattern.

      And Maurice, for all his expertise in handling the horses, knew very little about the money end of things.

      Still, Laurie had persevered, plunging into one foolish choice after another. Charlie’s illness, brief though it was, had depleted their cash, and everything she’d done had made the situation worse. She’d waited far too long to admit she needed help. Now, she was afraid it was too late. If she lost the Folly, she didn’t know what she would do. Oh, they could survive, but the ranch was her daughter’s legacy.

      “Maurice!” Wendy cried out as the Folly’s truck rumbled down the driveway. She scrambled out of the basket and ran to the edge of the yard, ready to greet Maurice Bryson, the Folly’s only remaining employee.

      “Hello, Sunshine,” Maurice said as he unfolded his long frame and climbed out of the truck. “And good morning to you, Miz Laurie. I brought your mail.”

      “Thanks, Maurice. I’m afraid to ask, but what was wrong with the truck, and how much did it cost to fix it?”

      “Water pump. Not too much.” He handed a receipt to Laurie along with the stack of letters. She winced. Could have been worse, she supposed.

      Wendy tugged at Maurice’s pants leg. “Are you my daddy?” she asked earnestly.

      Maurice let loose with a roar of laughter, then picked Wendy up and swung her into the air. “No, Sunshine, I’m afraid my skin’s just a tad too dark for me to be your daddy. But I can be your honorary uncle, how ‘bout that?” He set her down and patted her on the head.

      “Wendy!” Laurie was mortified. “I’m sorry, Maurice. Ever since she figured out that all the other kids at her preschool have daddies, she’s been obsessed with the concept. Wendy,” she said sternly, “I’ve told you before, your daddy’s in heaven. I’ve shown you his picture.”

      “But that’s not fair,” she said, stamping her little foot. “When’s he coming back?”

      “Sweetheart, he can’t come back. He’s with the angels.”

      “Then I want a new daddy. Cindy has two. Why can’t I have one of hers?”

      Ah, the logic of three-year-olds. Thankfully, Laurie was saved from answering by the timely arrival of a visitor. A shiny blue pickup truck was barreling down the long driveway, raising a cloud of red dust. Laurie’s immediate reaction was to covet the truck, which was so much newer and nicer than hers, but she chastised herself. She had to stop wishing for the impossible and play the hand she’d been dealt.

      Hadn’t that always been the way of it?

      “Mommy, I have to go tinkle,” Wendy said, forgetting her daddy obsession for the moment.

      “Run inside if you have to use the bathroom,” Laurie said. She abhorred the term tinkle, another lovely concept her daughter had picked up at her weekly preschool. “I’ll be in in a minute to start lunch.”

      “Okay.” Wendy picked up one of the kittens, draped the compliant beast over her shoulder and headed for the front porch of the sprawling white frame house, which had been in the Birkett family for four generations.

      Maurice cast a curious glance over his shoulder as the truck drew closer. “I’ll set that mail on the front porch for you.”

      Laurie handed him the packet of letters and catalogs, which she’d scarcely glanced at. “Thanks. Don’t stray too far. I have no idea who’s driving that truck.” Winnefred was a friendly little town, certainly no hotbed of crime, but as a woman living alone in the country, Laurie was aware of how vulnerable she was.

      The blue truck pulled up behind the Folly’s truck and stopped. Someone applying for the job, perhaps? His vehicle certainly qualified, she thought guiltily, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. She wished she’d put on a nicer blouse this morning, instead of one that was faded and frayed at the cuffs.

      The truck’s door opened, and Laurie saw the man’s alligator boots first, then his legs—long and lean, encased in faded blue jeans. As his feet hit the ground, her gaze traveled upward to take in the slim hips, flat stomach and broad shoulders challenging the seams of a white western-cut shirt. He was looking down as he hit the ground, and his face and hair were obscured by a pearl gray Stetson. So it was only when he focused directly on her that she saw the lean, weather-whipped face, the sensual lips, the steel blue eyes, features once as familiar to her as her own reflection in the mirror.

      “Oh…my…God,” she murmured. Then every cubic inch of oxygen deserted her lungs.

      “Hi, Laurie.” He removed his hat, revealing his black hair, long and wavy on top but shorter on the sides than she remembered. It gleamed in the sun like a crow’s wing.

      “Hi, Laurie?” she repeated, the words choked. “Is that all you have to say? You’re supposed to be dead!” With that the world imploded to a pinpoint of light and the ground tipped sideways. The last thing she remembered was a strong pair of arms breaking her fall.

      Jake