Charm School For Cowboys. Meg Maxwell

Gulch, which had been a relief—Emma had family in that town, a great-aunt, Essie Hurley, who owned a popular restaurant, and three cousins. But after weeks in Blue Gulch, staying at Essie’s and working part-time at Hurley’s Homestyle Kitchen when it was clear Essie didn’t need the help, Emma still hadn’t tracked Joshua down.

      Until this morning—when she’d been waiting on her iced mocha at the coffee shop and overheard two men talking about the rodeo as they were walking out. She’d asked them if they knew of a cowboy named Joshua Smith and she’d expected the usual, “No, sorry.” But a funny look came over one of the men’s faces and he said, “Joshua Smith? Do you mean Tex? Bull rider, right?”

      Emma had almost dropped the iced mocha the barista had handed her. Apparently, Joshua had recently gotten a job at the Full Circle ranch ten miles out of town and only went by Tex. He probably switched to his given name for women he wanted to seduce. Joshua Smith sounded like a man who’d be there in the morning; Tex, more like a good-time guy. Nevertheless. She’d found him!

      Now, as she followed the directions her great-aunt had given her to the ranch, she thought about how easy it had been for Joshua—Tex—to fool her. The day she’d met him, back in late January, she’d had a whopper of an argument with her father, a CEO whose photo should appear beside the dictionary definition of the word controlling. Reginald Hurley was upset that she wouldn’t quit her job as a short-order cook in an all-night diner, a place she loved working, with coworkers she adored and a manager who liked coming up with funny names for the specials. You’ll never meet an appropriate man in a greasy spoon like that, Emma, her father always said. Let me get you a job at Le Vieux—it’s a four-star restaurant.

      Emma had tried that already; after culinary school she’d worked in three fancy restaurants. In one, the chef screamed in her ear to the point she’d drop expensive cuts of meat. In another, the sous-chef would slap her on the butt everytime he passed her, then lied about her work performance when she reported him to the owner. In the final one, a customer had sent back his salmon three times; it wasn’t “just right” and he couldn’t explain why, and she’d been fired on the spot. The next day she’d seen the help-wanted sign in the diner, noticed that the cooks visible through the open area behind the counter were whistling and chatting away, and she’d gone right in. The manager liked to give awards to the staff to keep them happy. She’d won Best Burger, Best Flapjacks and Best Attitude on Busy Sunday Mornings.

      She’d tried to explain to her father that she wasn’t necessarily looking for a man or a husband; she had a dream of becoming a personal chef but wanted more experience first and loved the diner, where she made comfort food and smiley face meals for kids. His response? Frankly, Emma, it’s embarrassing that you work in that dump. It’s bad enough you live in an apartment above a pizzeria. Come on.

      After that argument, she’d taken herself to the rodeo to lose herself in an afternoon of watching hunky cowboys in action, only to be sweet-talked by the hunkiest about being true to herself and living her own life and no one else’s. She’d said yes to an impromptu invitation of dinner and slow dancing with the blue-eyed cowboy. They’d talked and talked and talked through dinner, looked deeply into each other’s eyes as they’d danced, and then they were holding hands and kissing their way to her hotel room, where she forgot everything that had been troubling her. When the dawn woke her up, her cowboy was gone and Emma had lain there wondering if she’d daydreamed the whole thing. Six weeks later, when a pink plus sign appeared in the home pregnancy test window, she knew she hadn’t.

      Emma drove on, thinking about what she was going to say to Joshua. I just wanted you to know. I don’t expect anything from you. And she’d see what he said.

      A few feet up on the left, near a big weeping willow, just like Aunt Essie—who Emma had confided in—said to look for, was a sign for the Full Circle Ranch. She turned and headed down the drive, tall oaks lining her path, the green canopy of leaves barely letting through the bright May sunshine, going strong close to six o’clock in the evening.

      Up ahead she could see a stately house, almost a Colonial style with white pillars and a red door, the same red that matched the big barn behind it and another farther down. There were pastures as far as the eye could see, some containing bulls, some smaller areas with goats and sheep. Two cats were chasing after something flying low, a butterfly, maybe, until a black goat suddenly booked out of the barn, headed west. Suddenly, the cats flew behind the barn and the front door of the house opened.

      A tall, dark-haired man in his early thirties, wearing a white apron and carrying a pair of silver tongs, rushed out, a cell phone to his ear, a piece of paper in his other hand. His gaze was on the runaway goat.

      “Oh hell,” she heard him mutter as she pulled up. “No, not you, Anderson,” he said into the phone. “Yes, I want the three heifers. Friday’s fine.” He pocketed the phone. “CJ!” he called out.

      Emma glanced around. A younger man, with a shock of glossy dark hair, came out of the house behind him.

      “I’m texting Stella,” the younger guy said. “Can it wait?”

      “Do you think Goatby can wait?” he asked, pointing at the goat halfway across the open field.

      “Oh hell,” CJ said, and Emma had to smile. He’d said it just like the man in the apron had.

      Emma stepped from the car, the scent of burned meat in the air. “Is something burning?” she asked the man. He was tall, at least six foot two, with dark brown hair and green eyes, and muscular and handsome in the way of the old Westerns her grandmother used to watch on TV when Emma was young. That combined with the apron and tongs made her smile.

      “Oh hell!” he grumbled. He pivoted, but then turned toward the guy chasing the goat, then turned back toward the house. “I’ve got five steaks on the grill out back.” He threw up his hands, clearly torn between chasing after the goat and saving dinner.

      She’d waited six weeks to tell Joshua that she was pregnant with his baby; she could wait another ten minutes to ask for him. “I’ll take care of the steaks. I’m a cook at Hurley’s. Go get Goatby.”

      He stared at her, his eyes crinkling in confusion, and then he shook his head as if to clear it and raced after the younger guy and the goat. She could hear it bleating.

      Emma followed the scent of the burning steaks into a large kitchen with gorgeous gray cabinets and stainless steel appliances, and then out through the open sliding glass doors to a patio that led to a big backyard. An orange cat was curled up under a shady tree, its eyes slitting open for a brief look at the visitor.

      The steaks still smelled good, which meant they might be salvageable. If it’s one thing her great-aunt Essie had taught her: a good barbecue sauce could save just about anything.

      She found another pair of tongs and turned the steaks. Was this a family dinner? She had no idea. Back inside the kitchen she peeked inside the oven and saw five potatoes baking in foil; a timer was ticking with two minutes to go. She gave one of the potatoes a gentle squeeze, then took off the foil and chucked it, brushed olive oil on the skins and set the timer for ten more minutes. There were the makings for salad on the counter. A head of romaine lettuce, a cucumber, two tomatoes. She opened the refrigerator and found a store-bought blue cheese dressing. She gave it a little taste. Not bad, but nothing compared to her aunt Essie’s homemade dressings.

      By the time the oven timer dinged, she had the dining room table set for five, the salad tossed in a big silver bowl, and butter and sour cream and chives on a serving tray awaiting the potatoes. She headed out to the patio with a platter for the steaks. Perfect. The slight char on one side would just make them that much better. She found some sauces in the refrigerator and set them out too.

      She heard voices and looked out the dining room window. The man in the apron and the younger guy were heading back with the goat. She smiled at Goatby, who looked quite pleased with himself and his little escapade. Three other men, of various ages and all in cowboy hats and jeans, were coming from one of the other barns.

      She stepped outside. “Dinner’s on the table.”

      The