A Son For The Cowboy. Sasha Summers

       Chapter Fifteen

       Chapter Sixteen

       Chapter Seventeen

       Epilogue

       Extract

       Copyright

       Chapter One

      Poppy tucked a brown curl behind her ear and rested her chin on her steering wheel, admiring the denim-clad rear of the big, brawny cowboy peering in the picture window of her newly purchased storefront. Those jeans should be downright illegal. Or the rear that was wearing them should. Something about a nice butt in a work-worn pair of Wranglers got her every time. Hey, she appreciated beauty where she saw it.

      “This it, Ma?” Rowdy asked, his sleep-thickened voice ending her ogling.

      “This is it,” she said, smiling at her son as she climbed out of her truck. She’d spent hours planning out the remodel for the shop. The place was perfect for what she had in mind, just perfect—oozing country charm, cowboy mystique and simpler times. She could envision shiny belt buckles, bits and bridles in the glass case at the register. The hats and boots along the back wall. Clothing on the left, housewares on the right. Everything cowboy, everything quality and everything unique. With all her contacts from the rodeo circuit, she knew she’d be able to give her patrons the best possible quality. She couldn’t wait to get started. “Want to go inside?”

      Rowdy shrugged, unbuckling his seat belt. “Sure.” He yawned, barely waking up. It had been a long car ride and the kids had been as good as gold. Not a complaint among them. A rarity, really.

      “What do you two think?” she asked, opening the back door of her four-door diesel truck. “We can poke around, see how the contractor’s doing on the shelving, then go get some breakfast? Then head out to the new place. There’ll be plenty of room to run there.”

      Her niece and nephew looked at her, their lack of interest or enthusiasm no longer surprising her.

      “Good, let’s go,” she said, pulling the store keys from her pocket and climbing onto the wooden porch.

      “Can’t we eat first?” Otis asked.

      “Yeah, I’m hungry, too,” Dot added.

      “Soon we will,” she promised, ignoring the grating tone they used. They tended toward that nasal whine to wear down a person’s resistance until they got what they wanted. Poppy refused to buckle. She was excited—hoped they’d get excited, too.

      “Chill,” Rowdy said, less patient than she was. “You just ate a granola bar and an apple. You’re not starving.” She placed a hand on his shoulder, not wanting things to escalate between them. Even if he was right.

      “So it’s true? You’re the new owner?” Mr. Cute-Butt Cowboy asked.

      She nodded, glancing his way. And stared. No. No. No. This isn’t fair. Not now. Not here. Toben Boone cannot be here.

      “I had to see it with my own two eyes.” He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over his broad chest, smiling, dimples showing. “Poppy White. Out of the saddle and—” his eyes traveled over the kids “—domesticated.” She stared. Speechless.

      She was responsible. Domesticated? Why did he make it sound like an insult?

      Responsibility was something Toben Boone knew nothing about. Words spun. So many words. None of which mattered. Her heart was thumping, but she didn’t know if it was caused by anger or surprise or panic.

      She glanced at her son, but he had his face pressed against the glass—unaware.

      “Morning,” she managed, fumbling with the key before opening the door. Rowdy rushed past her and into the shop. Dot and Otis lingered, looking bored, on the wooden plank porch. “Why don’t you go look around?” she said to them. “We’ll go check out the house after we eat. You can unwind for a while there.”

      Dot shot her a death glare and Otis sighed before they moved at a glacial pace into the building.

      “Those all yours?” Toben asked, watching the two sullen children shuffle inside. His eyebrow cocked up in question.

      Damn but he hadn’t changed much. He was clean shaven now, but his jaw was covered in stubble. He was still far too easy on the eyes, with his straw hat cocked forward and jeans that fit like a glove. He still had that...charisma. The first time they’d met, she’d sat on her bar stool and watched him in action. He’d been impressive. Whether he was riding a bronc, dancing to George Strait or picking up a woman, he did so with a confidence that drew the eye. And she knew from firsthand experience that he had every right to be confident.

      She shook her head. “Rose, my sister’s.” A sister who needed a vacation, desperately. Nothing like cancer and chemotherapy to realize how precious time was. Rose and Bob had flown to the Bahamas for a romantic two-week getaway, leaving Poppy with their kids. They hadn’t met the halfway mark yet and Poppy’s patience was fading.

      Toben nodded, pushing off the doorframe. He seemed bigger, taking up more space. “What brings you to Stonewall Crossing, Poppy? I never figured you for the small-town shopkeeper sort.” He tipped his hat back with his finger and stared down at her with those baby blues.

      “Considering how well you knew me?” she asked, refusing to get lost in his eyes. Sure, they’d known of each other on the circuit. But they’d spent ten, maybe twelve, hours together before she’d headed to Santa Fe. And in that time, they hadn’t done a lot of talking.

      He chuckled. “What I knew, I liked. A hell of a lot.”

      She smiled reluctantly. Sonofabitch that he was, he still had that boyish charm about him. All dimples, blue eyes and blond curls. Hard not to get sucked in. “I’ve got things to do.”

      He nodded. “I’ll be seeing you around.”

      Around? I hope not. “Sure.” She nodded, stepping inside, and closed the door before he could say anything else.

      She leaned against the solid wood for support. It had been seven years since she’d seen Toben Boone. Seven years. A lifetime.

      Rowdy’s lifetime.

      Her gaze fell on her son. Rowdy stood, hands on his hips, inspecting the shop with interest. He was a good boy, inquisitive and patient. A boy who knew who his father was, because Poppy didn’t believe in secrets or lies. Rowdy had never met him, had never had the chance—before now. And now...she couldn’t bring herself to make the introductions. Her son had his father’s dimples and curls—but unlike his father, Rowdy was a good boy, loyal and honest. And since Toben hadn’t displayed the least bit of curiosity or interest in finally meeting his son, Poppy wasn’t all that eager to rectify the situation.

      * * *

      TOBEN WALKED TO Pop’s Bakery, unable to shake the odd sensation in his gut. Seeing Poppy threw him off balance.

      “What’ll it be?” Carl, the bakery’s owner, asked. “Lola made some fresh blueberry muffins. Bear claws? Ham-and-cheese crescent rolls?”

      “How about you set me up with a box.” Toben smiled, leaning on the counter.

      “Feeding the boys at the ranch today?” Carl asked. “Might need more than one.”

      Toben