The Cowboy's Family. Brenda Minton

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      “Can I help?”

      Hadn’t she helped enough?

      “No.” Wyatt walked away because it was a lot easier than staying there to answer more of her questions. He knew it probably seemed rude, but she didn’t have a clue.

      Rachel didn’t know that he was rebuilding his family and that it took every bit of energy he had. Everything he had went to his girls, into making them smile and making their lives stable.

      As he walked into the barn, he glanced back. Rachel leaned to talk to Kat. Curls fell forward, framing her face, but a hand came up to push her hair back. She smiled and leaned to kiss his daughter on the cheek.

      He walked into the shadowy interior of the barn and flipped on a light. He breathed in the familiar scents. Cows, horses, hay and leather. He could deal with this. He couldn’t deal with a beautiful woman who seemed to love his girls as much as he did.

      BRENDA MINTON

      started creating stories to entertain herself during hour-long rides on the school bus. In high school she wrote romance novels to entertain her friends. The dream grew and so did her aspirations to become an author. She started with notebooks, handwritten manuscripts and characters that refused to go away until their stories were told. Eventually she put away the pen and paper and got down to business with the computer. The journey took a few years, with some encouragement and rejection along the way—as well as a lot of stubbornness on her part. In 2006 her dream to write for the Steeple Hill Love Inspired line came true. Brenda lives in the rural Ozarks with her husband, three kids and an abundance of cats and dogs. She enjoys a chaotic life that she wouldn’t trade for anything—except, on occasion, a beach house in Texas. You can stop by and visit at her website, www.brendaminton.net.

      The Cowboy’s Family

      Brenda Minton

      Thou hast turned for me my mourning into dancing:

      Thou hast put off my sackcloth, and girded me with gladness.

      —Psalms 30:11

      To my readers.

      And especially to Julie, for your prayers, your thoughtfulness and your insight.

      To Stephanie Newton, for those last minute critiques!

      Contents

      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

      Chapter Fourteen

      Chapter Fifteen

      Chapter Sixteen

      Chapter Seventeen

      Epilogue

      Letter to Reader

      Questions for Discussion

      Chapter One

      Why had she thought this was a good idea, cleaning house for Wyatt Johnson? Rachel Waters cut the engine to her car and stared up at the big, brick home that Wyatt had built over the winter. She pushed her sunglasses to the top of her head as she mulled the reasons for being here. First of all, she’d agreed to this as a favor to Ryder and Andie. Second, she struggled with the word no.

      There were plenty of reasons not to be here. She didn’t need the money. She didn’t need the headache.

      She especially didn’t need the heartache.

      And Wyatt Johnson had heartache written all over his too-handsome face. Heartache was etched into his eyes. It was the whisper of a smile on his lips. It hovered over his lean features when he picked up his girls from the church nursery, hugging them but saying little to her or the other nursery workers.

      So what had she gone and done? As if she didn’t have enough to occupy her time, Rachel had agreed when Ryder Johnson asked her to clean the house his brother Wyatt had built on land across the road from the original Johnson ranch house, the house Ryder and his wife Andie now called home.

      Rachel eyed the brick, French country-style home. The windows were wide, the porch was brick and stone. The landscaping was professionally done, but the flowers were being choked out by weeds.

      It was a far cry from the parsonage she’d shared with her parents for the last year; since her dad took the job as pastor of the Dawson Community Church. Their little house could fit into this one five times. But the parsonage was immaculate. If her father could get hold of these gardens, he could do wonders with the place.

      Oh, well, she couldn’t put it off forever. She hopped out of her car. A border collie bounded toward her, tail wagging. The animal, black-and-white coat clean and brushed, rolled over at her feet. Rachel leaned to pet the dog’s belly.

      “So, at least you get some attention, huh, girl?”

      That wasn’t fair. Wyatt tried, she was sure he tried. But his girls often came to church with ragged little braids and mismatched clothes. Not that the girls seemed to mind. They smiled and hugged him, and then waited for him to pick them up again.

      Rachel cast a critical gaze over the lawn and the house. The barns and fences surrounding the place were well-kept. The horses grazing in the fields gleamed in the early spring sunshine. She’d spent a lifetime dreaming of a place like this.

      She walked up the patio steps and knocked on the back door. She stood there for a long time, looking out over the fields, talking aimlessly to the dog. She knocked again. From inside she heard children talking and the drone of the television.

      She knocked a third time.

      Finally footsteps headed her way and a male voice said something about the television show they were watching. She stepped back and the door opened. Wyatt Johnson stared at her, his dark hair longish. His brown eyes with flecks of dark green were fringed with long lashes. Gorgeous eyes and a gorgeous man. She nearly groaned. He stared at her and then looked down. Two little heads peeked out at her. Molly, age three, and Kat, age two. Molly had told her that she’d be turning four in a few of weeks.

      “Can I help you?” Wyatt didn’t move, didn’t invite her in. He just stared, as if he didn’t have a clue who she was. Six months he’d been home. Six months she’d held his girls and read them stories. Sundays had flown by and each week he’d signed the girls in, signed them out and she’d asked how he was doing.

      She was the invisible Rachel Waters. He was probably trying to decide where he knew her from.

      “I’m here to clean,” she explained, and she managed to smile.

      “Clean?”

      She held up the bucket she’d taken from her car and the tub of cleaning supplies. “Clean your house. Ryder hired me.”

      “He didn’t say anything to me.”

      “No, he probably didn’t. Surprise!” She smiled at the girls. They giggled. At least they thought she was funny.

      Kat, hands pudgy, her smile sweet, pushed against Wyatt and slipped outside. Rachel wasn’t invisible to Kat. Or to Molly.

      “We have crayons.”

      “That’s wonderful, Kat. Are you