Home On The Ranch. Trish Milburn

      

      Austin extended his hand to help her up. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you.”

      “Totally my fault.” Instead of taking his hand, she shoved herself to her feet.

      He couldn’t help how his gaze shifted to her wet T-shirt, which was plastered to her breasts.

      Ella lifted her hands, palms out. “Didn’t want to get you muddy.” She nodded toward the spigot. “Sorry I used so much water, but I felt like a turkey roasting at Thanksgiving.”

      “Don’t give yourself heatstroke.”

      She waved away his concern. “Nothing a shower, a load of laundry and the biggest Coke I can find won’t cure.”

       Don’t think of her in the shower. Don’t think of her in the shower.

      “I’ll be back in the morning, and I’ll bring you that ladder,” she said.

      “Okay.” Did his voice sound as dry as his throat felt?

      Thankfully, Ella slid into her truck and quickly shut the door, hiding the way her wet shorts were cupping her hips. As she drove away, he let out a slow breath, turned on the spigot and stuck his own head under the cool flow of water.

      Home on the Ranch

      Trish Milburn

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      TRISH MILBURN writes contemporary romance for the Mills & Boon Cherish line and paranormal romance for the Mills & Boon Nocturne series. She’s a two-time Golden Heart^® Award winner, a fan of walks in the woods and road trips, and a big geek girl, including being a dedicated Whovian and Browncoat. And from her earliest memories, she’s been a fan of Westerns, be they historical or contemporary. There’s nothing quite like a cowboy hero.

      Thanks to MJ Fredrick, for introducing me to Junk Gypsies.

      To Amie and Jolie Sikes, for being the Junk Gypsies and inspiring the character of Ella Garcia.

      Contents

       Cover

       Introduction

       Title Page

       About the Author

       Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

       Chapter Five

       Chapter Six

       Chapter Seven

       Chapter Eight

       Chapter Nine

       Chapter Ten

       Chapter Eleven

       Chapter Twelve

       Chapter Thirteen

       Epilogue

       Extract

       Copyright

       Chapter One

      He couldn’t do it. As Austin Bryant stared at the front of the older house where he’d grown up, his breathing grew tight. It was as if what lay beyond the front door was already suffocating him as it had threatened to do during his childhood.

      Somewhere in the distance, he heard the sound of an engine. The early May sun baked him like it could only in Texas, albeit not with the urban type of heat that came from that same sun beating down on metal and concrete. Even though sweat trickled from his neck toward the middle of his back, his feet refused to move.

      He took a deliberate deep breath. It didn’t matter how long he stood in the front yard of his grandparents’ house, the monumental task he faced wasn’t going to magically disappear. With his grandfather’s passing, the time that he’d dreaded for years had come—cleaning out the house so he could sell it.

      Austin inhaled another breath that felt as if it might scorch his lungs before he headed toward the front steps. He paused with the key in his hand, wondering if he could just walk away, sell the place as it was, let someone else deal with the cleaning and repairs. But that didn’t feel right. Despite everything, this had been his home when he was young. His earliest memories and dreams were formed here. No matter how hard it was, this was his task and his alone.

      He shook his head, telling himself to just get on with things. The sooner he started, the sooner he could put it all behind him and stop thinking about what might have been.

      The doorknob squeaked as he turned it, already making itself an item on his to-do list. He stepped across the threshold and into his past, the one he’d fled when he’d gone away to college. All around him, piled to the ceiling, was...stuff. Old magazines sat side by side with clothing that hadn’t been worn in decades. Shelves of ceramic dust-catchers—cats, cowboy boots, ladies in frilly dresses, bells and God only knew what else—competed for space with chairs draped in more quilts and afghans than anyone in Texas should own.

      He forced himself to take a few more steps into the house, but the farther he went the more he felt as if the piles of belongings were going to topple over and bury him alive. He’d had that particular nightmare for years, still did on occasion, and his lungs constricted just thinking about it. He spun in a slow circle, so overwhelmed he had no idea where to start. The task of getting rid of years of his grandparents’ hoarding felt like he was facing scooping away Mount Everest with a teaspoon.

      His grandparents had never been able to satisfactorily explain why they found it impossible to throw away any of their possessions. Not even when they’d passed the point of being able to know what items resided at the bottom of the piles. The one saving grace was that they hadn’t been the type of hoarders who kept true garbage that attracted rodents or had dozens of cats. Still, it felt as if it was going to take the rest of his life to sort out what they’d left behind. Everything around him seemed to close in on him.

      Not ready