Wild Ride Cowboy. Maisey Yates

      Then he turned and walked back toward his truck, leaving her standing there with her cappuccino.

      She took another sip. “Dammit!”

      She forced herself to swallow it, rather than spitting it out into the gravel, on the off chance Asher was watching.

      She had to get to work now, she couldn’t worry about Alex. Whatever he had to say to her, she would take care of it then. Her life had already been rocked beyond recognition in the past couple of months. There was nothing Alex Donnelly could say that would bring it crumbling down now.

      * * *

      VERY FEW PEOPLE would call Alex Donnelly a coward. He had dodged gunfire, survived a rain of mortar shells—more than once—and worn full tactical gear in arid heat that could practically bake a loaf of bread, or a man’s brains for that matter.

      But he had been a little bit of a coward when he’d allowed Clara Campbell to put off their conversation about her deceased brother’s will.

      The fact of the matter was he had been a coward for the past couple of months that he’d been back in Copper Ridge, and had avoided having the conversation with her at all. He’d had his excuses, that was for sure.

      Some of them were actually valid. Like the time he’d put into investigating the legality of what her brother had asked him to do. And then the time spent going over the letter Jason had left. The one that clarified just why he wanted things this way and made it impossible to deny him.

      Still, Alex had waited to talk to Clara, even after that.

      At first, it had been out of deference to her grief. And after that, because he was trying to get his feet underneath him at the Laughing Irish ranch, which he worked at with his brothers.

      Frankly, after losing his best friend and his grandfather, he’d had enough to deal with without adding Clara to the mix. But it couldn’t be avoided anymore. And when he had discovered her cell phone was turned off, he’d felt guilty for avoiding it as long as he had.

      Clara must be hurting for money. Enough that she had taken a job at Grassroots Winery, and was letting bills go unpaid.

      He’d expected her to call if things were that bad. Hell, he’d expected her to call period. But the way she’d acted at the coffee shop, it didn’t seem like she’d spoken to anyone about the details of Jason’s will.

      Now that he thought about it, if she had, she probably would have come at him hissing and spitting.

      She might still. But she was late.

      Alex pushed his cowboy hat back on his head and looked at the scenery around him. The ranch was small, and so was the ranch house. Rustic. From his position on the front porch—which was squeaking beneath his cowboy boots—he couldn’t see the highway.

      Couldn’t see anything but the pine trees that grew thick and strong around the property, standing tall like sentries, there to protect the ranch and all who lived there.

      “Well, you’re doing a pretty piss poor job,” he commented.

      Because damned if the Campbells hadn’t been through enough. But he was here to make things easier. He knew—was one hundred percent certain—that Clara wouldn’t see it that way initially. But this was what Jason had wanted, and he knew that Jason had nothing but his sister’s best interests in mind when he’d made out his will.

      Alex owed it to his friend to see his last wishes carried out. No question about it.

      He took a deep breath, putting his hands on his narrow hips as he turned a half circle to take in more of the property. The driveway needed to be graveled. It was slick and muddy right now, even though it had been a few days since it had rained.

      There was a truck and a tractor that Alex would lay odds didn’t run, parked off in the weeds, looking like metal corpses left to rust into the earth.

      The place needed a lot of work. It was too much for him to do by himself, let alone one woman. One grieving woman who was having to work part-time on top of doing the general ranch work.

      He figured at this point the place wasn’t really functional. But he was forming some ideas on how to get it working again. On how to make sure Clara hadn’t just been saddled with a millstone.

      Or, more accurately, that he hadn’t been.

      The center of the sky was dimming to a purplish blue, the edges around the trees a kind of dusty pink by the time Clara’s truck pulled up the long driveway into the house. She stopped, turning off the engine, staying in the vehicle. She was looking at him like she was shocked to see him, even though he had told her he would be there.

      He shoved his hands in his pockets, leaning against the support for the porch, not moving until Clara got out of the truck.

      She was such a petite little thing. And she had definitely lost weight since he’d seen her a few weeks ago. He couldn’t imagine her taking on a place like this, and suddenly he felt like the biggest ass on the planet. That he had stayed away because she was going to be angry, when she had clearly been here working her knuckles to the bone.

      Jason had been clear on what he wanted. The fact that Alex had screwed it up so far seemed just about right, as far as things went.

      “Big wine-tasting day?” he asked.

      Clara frowned. “No. Why?”

      “You’re home late.”

      She raised a brow, then walked around to the back of the truck and pulled out a bag of groceries. “I had to stop and get stuff for dinner.”

      “Good. You do eat.”

      She frowned. “What does that mean?”

      “You’re too skinny.” He felt like a dick for saying it, but it was true. She was on the sadness diet, something he was a little too familiar with. But he’d learned not to give in to that in the military. Learned to eat even when his ears were ringing from an explosion, or the heat was so intense the idea of eating something hot was next to torture. Or when you’d just seen a body, bent and twisted under rubble.

      Because food wasn’t about enjoyment. It was about survival.

      A lot like life in general.

      Clara Campbell needed help surviving. That was clear to him.

      Clara scowled even deeper as she walked toward him. “Great. Thanks, Alex. Just what every woman wants to hear.”

      “Actually, in my experience, a lot of women would like to hear that.” He snagged the paper grocery bag out of her arms as she tried to walk past him. “SpaghettiOs? What the hell is this?”

      “I call it dinner.”

      “Sure, for a four-year-old.”

      “I’m sorry they don’t live up to your five-star military rations. But I like them.”

      She reached out and grabbed hold of the bag, trying to take it out of his arms.

      “Stop it,” he said. “You’ve been working all day. I’m going to carry your groceries.”

      She bristled. “You’re insulting my groceries. I feel like you don’t deserve to carry them.”

      He snorted, then turned away from her, jerking the bag easily from her hold. “Open the door for me.”

      “I thought military men were good at taking orders,” she said. “All you seem to do is give them.”

      “Yeah, well I’m not in the army now, baby.” He smiled, and he knew it would infuriate her. “Open the damn door.”

      Her face turned a very particular shade of scarlet but she did comply, pulling out her keys and undoing the lock, then pushing the door open. He walked over the threshold, and a board squeaked beneath his feet. He made a mental note to fix that.

      “The