A Montana Cowboy. Rebecca Winters

she left the kitchen, Trace cleaned up the mess he’d made and went back to his bedroom to put on jeans and a T-shirt. His room was exactly as he’d left it. The framed pictures of him, a couple with his dog, some with his parents and some with Jarod and Connor out horseback riding, still hung on the wall.

      He found his old pair of cowboy boots and put them on. With the exception of the last time he’d been home, he and his father had always gone riding after chores were done.

      His ancient black cowboy hat sat on the closet shelf. He dusted it off and shoved it on his head. Once he’d sent his father a text, he headed for the barn. Cassie was already out in the paddock astride her horse.

      Buttercup was well named. Between Cassie’s hair and the palomino’s golden color that included a white mane and tail, they made quite a sight in the sun. He rubbed her horse’s forelock. “You’re a real beauty, aren’t you Buttercup,” he said, struggling not to look at Cassie. Her coloring was the complete opposite from the Italians he’d spent time with over the past eighteen months.

      Nicoletta Tornielli, the olive-skinned woman he’d been planning to marry, had long black hair and large black-brown eyes. After being around her family, Cassie’s fairness with that peaches-and-cream complexion was in complete contrast.

      While he was deep in thought over the change in his circumstances, her horse pushed against his chest, causing both of them to laugh. She smiled down at him. “Buttercup likes you. When one of the older ranchers in the area told Connor he needed to sell a couple of his horses, Connor took me with him and I ended up buying Buttercup. She’s been a wonderful horse so far. Friendly.”

      “Your cousin has a great eye for horseflesh. One horse down, one to go.” Still feeling her smile, he walked into the barn. The smell of the barn brought back memories of getting up early in the morning. He’d repair the fencing bordering the Bannock property with his father, or make certain the planted forage wasn’t flooded by the numerous springs. Then he’d ride to the pasture. His job was to look for heifers in trouble while his dad checked on the rest of the herd.

      In one of the stalls he found a blue roan with transverse stripes across the withers, marking him a wild mustang. “Hey, big fella.” Trace started talking to the horse, touching him, using all the tricks his horse-loving father had taught him years ago. The gentleness paid off. Soon the horse was nickering. Trace went into the tack room for a bridle and brought it out.

      At first Masala shied away from it, but Trace continued to talk to him in soothing tones until the horse allowed the bridle to be put on. “It’s now or never,” he muttered before mounting him. Trace had always preferred riding bareback on his favorite mount, Prince. That seemed a century ago. If this horse didn’t like the weight, it was too late now.

      Masala tossed his head several times and backed up, but when he realized he wasn’t in charge, Trace made a clicking sound and rode him out of the barn.

      Cassie’s eyes flashed like green gemstones. “I don’t believe it! I didn’t think he’d let anyone else ride him.”

      “My father taught me a few techniques.” They left the paddock and headed for the deep forest that made the Rafferty property so desirable to Trace.

      “You learned them well. He must sense the take-charge pilot in you.”

      “You think?” he teased.

      “I know.”

      They rode side by side, following a faint trail that wound through the trees. With the temperature at eighty-one degrees, he welcomed the cool of the forest. When the fall hunting season was on, the abundance of wildlife made the property a big game hunter’s paradise—elk, moose, mule deer, bison, white-tailed deer, bear and bighorn sheep roamed this part of the state. This ranch had it all. Someone would pay a lot of money for the property. Trace was determined that money would go right into his father’s bank account.

      He glanced over at Cassie. “Tell me something. Who did the work and staining on the exterior of the cabin? When I first drove in, I thought I’d come to the wrong house. It’s so changed I hardly recognized it.”

      “That was Logan’s doing.”

      “The artwork on the shutters, too?”

      “No. That was my contribution.”

      Trace marveled at her skill. He took a deep breath of the pine-scented air. “And the garden?”

      “We both worked on it at the end of last summer to get it ready for spring.”

       A spring Logan never saw...

      It meant Cassie had done all the planting. “You’ve made the place beautiful.”

      “Thank you. Your father asked me to pick out some porch furniture so it would look more attractive. When I was young I read all the books in the Little House series. I loved them and envied Laura Ingalls Wilder her life.”

      He wondered where she was going with this. “I remember watching a few TV shows based on those books.”

      Cassie flicked him a glance. “Do you know, when I first saw this place, I found myself thinking of it as Little House in the Big Woods. You know, it’s isolated here. The forest is so pristine and untouched. Anyway, it gave me the same feeling as those books. I was really delighted when your father hired us to live and work here. It’s an adorable house in the perfect setting.”

      Trace was charmed by her. “Well, with what you’ve done to it, it is now. Tell me—do you plan on writing a series of books about this house, too?”

      “Don’t be silly.”

      He eyed her very fetching profile. “You have a real talent for color and design. There are chalets in the Alps with shutters that can’t touch the beauty of your artwork. Dad should have hired you years ago. How many other homes have you worked on?”

      “None.” She sounded surprised. “I’m not an artist, Trace. But a few years ago some of my college friends and I went on spring break to Europe. When we toured through Switzerland, I stayed in a village where all the chalets had decorated shutters and window boxes. I was so delighted by them, I took pictures and thought I’d like to try my hand if I ever got the chance. Your father, bless his heart, was willing to let me experiment.”

      “He got more than his money’s worth. I’m very impressed.” He was impressed with a lot of things about her. She was well traveled, could grow a garden and make jam, paint and was an expert horsewoman, as well. Trace had no doubts she could ride Masala if she wanted. He got the feeling she was holding something back where the horse was concerned, but he wasn’t about to push his theory about why at this early stage.

      “Tell me about your deployment in Italy. What was it like to be a jet pilot?”

      His career seemed to be a safe topic for her, so he obliged her. “In a word, exhilarating.”

      “But what was your job exactly?”

      “The mission of the Thirty-First Fighter Wing is to deliver combat power and support across the globe to achieve U.S. and NATO objectives.”

      “I guess you had to memorize that for everyone who asks.” He smiled at her perception.

      “So what did you do when you weren’t fighting?”

      “We had to maintain aircraft and personnel in a high state of readiness. That involved a lot of training exercises.”

      “Did you get your eye injury in combat? I hope you don’t mind my asking. When your father received the news, he was too broken up to talk about it.”

      So was Trace’s girlfriend, Nicci. She’d begged him to go to work for her father so nothing between them would change. But everything had changed. There was no going back.

      For their marriage to take place, she would have to move to Colorado. But she’d been living in denial since his injury and their relationship had hit a plateau.