A Cowboy To Call Daddy. Sasha Summers

articles, ads, fliers, programs and several certificates honoring Dr. Boone, the refuge and the important work being done here.

      Several of the refuge horses had gone on to help out as therapy animals, some were companion animals, while others stayed right here, working on the ranch. Her guilt increased. She knew the refuge would probably survive without the grant funds, but they’d likely mean cuts. Cuts for the horses, like Fester. Or Archer’s staff... She tore her attention from the wall and returned to her desk.

      What did her father know that she didn’t?

      She sighed, rolling her neck and sipping her coffee. She placed the mug on the edge of the desk and moved to the window. Constant motion. Man, dogs, horses and some cattle. No one was idle or hesitant about what needed to be done.

      There was one large barn that fed into a series of open sheds, made up of stalls. At the end of the sheds, smaller pens branched off. Some looked like small tracks with a large wheel in the middle. Others resembled small mazes, with chutes and gates. Like the ranch archway, the structures were made of thick beams and stone. While functionality clearly took priority, there was no denying the buildings blended seamlessly into their surroundings—in harmony with one another.

      Archer strode toward a long open shed with several stalls, on a mission. He paused, smiling at the small gray-and-black dog following at his side. The dog barked, circling Archer, his stubby tail wagging in obvious excitement. Archer laughed, his smile easy—and beautiful. There was a sudden tug in her chest, a long-forgotten ache.

      She turned back to her work. Time wasn’t going to wait for her to recover from her momentary weakness. Archer Boone may be handsome and oddly fascinating; he was also firmly in the no-go zone. Considering she was lying to him about who she was and what she was doing here, the chances of them having any interaction once she’d left were slight to say the least.

      But his refuge, his work and the good he did was—as far as she could tell—irrefutable. He was no-kill, finding homes for those he could and keeping those he couldn’t. He rehabilitated not only the animals’ bodies, but their spirits. Not to mention the wildlife he’d taken in and relocated. From an injured bobcat and a red-tailed hawk unable to fly to a three-legged deer, Archer was hell-bent on taking care of them. And his paperwork, as disorganized as it was, offered no red flags.

      Her mother had always championed the refuge. When review time had rolled around, she’d believed in the refuge’s vision and fought to support it. And if Renata was right and she really meant to create an endowment for the refuge, how could Eden play a part in ending that?

      What was her father’s real motivation?

      She had so many questions. And no answers.

      Bottom line, the questions shouldn’t matter. She had to find something to take before the board to substantiate all the reasons Boone Ranch Refuge should not be awarded funds. Even if she was beginning to have doubts.

      * * *

      ARCHER GLANCED BACK at the refuge administrative building again. The stone building rested on a slight butte over the rest of the refuge. He’d put it there so, even on those rare days he was trapped at his desk, he could see what was happening outside.

      Now he was outside, staring at the building. For the six or seventh time this morning.

      She’d said no.

      He’d laid it out there, told her he needed her—Fester needed her. And she’d said no.

      He was angry. And disappointed.

      The crunch of gravel drew his attention to his cousins, Deacon and Toben.

      “Hey, Archer.” Deacon sauntered up, his hat tipped forward on his brow. “That little roan that came in yesterday? She’s coughing.”

      “She’s isolated?” he asked.

      “The four of them won’t separate,” Toben said.

      Deacon shrugged. “We tried, but we figured—since they’ve been together this long—parting them would upset them.”

      It was the right thing to do. If one was sick, they were likely all sick, so he’d treat them all. They were in sad shape. “Are they still in the south holding pen?”

      Deacon nodded.

      “I’ll head there now.”

      “She’s a pretty little thing.” Toben’s voice was unexpectedly soft.

      Archer smiled. “Once we get her healthy, she’s yours.” It was important for the staff to connect to the horses. Horses were social animals, and highly intuitive. If they knew a human loved them, it boosted their confidence. And these horses needed a whole lot of support right now.

      Toben laughed. “I wasn’t talking about the roan, Archer.” He shook his head. “I’d be hard-pressed to keep a clear head with something that soft and sweet working next door.”

      “You need to find a hobby that doesn’t involve skirt-chasing,” Deacon snapped.

      Archer followed his gaze to find Eden Caraway standing on the front porch of the administrative office. She stretched, arching her back before leaning forward on the porch railing.

      Archer scowled. She should be working, not distracting his staff. He agreed with Deacon. Toben couldn’t keep a clear head around any attractive woman—which was, as far as Archer was concerned, Toben’s greatest weakness. Women were just people. And Eden Caraway was...just a woman. He cleared his throat, grappling with the effect this woman had on him. He frowned, tugging at his shirt collar and focusing on his anger instead of the curve of her neck or the swell of soft curves he found all too distracting.

      Fester whinnied.

      “Damn.” Deacon sighed. “That horse has got it bad. Pretty sure he’s stayed penned because of her.”

      Archer agreed, watching the large black horse with interest. Fester was doing everything in his power to grab Eden’s attention, prancing along the fence line, nickering, whinnying. He smiled in spite of himself.

      “Look at that,” Toben murmured, equally impressed with Fester’s little display.

      His irritation flared. Poor Fester. He had no idea his affection was one-sided. But Archer did, and he was sad for the horse. And fuming. Eden had no idea what a gift Fester was giving her. “Too bad Miss Caraway doesn’t seem to care about Fester.”

      “I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Deacon said.

      Archer froze, glancing back at Fester. Eden had made her way, smiling, to where Fester waited at the fence. When she was close enough, she held her hand out, letting Fester blow and nuzzle it. She moved forward then, standing on the fence so she could rest her arms along the top beam.

      “He’s just eating it up,” Toben said. “Wonder what she’s saying.”

      Fester nudged Eden’s clip from her hair, letting her long hair fall around her shoulders. Archer watched, a strange tightness pressing in on his chest. She laughed, the sound ringing out and stirring a flare of hope in Archer’s chest.

      “You should talk to her about—”

      “Miss Caraway is here to get the books in shape. Then she’ll be on her way.” His words were a reminder. It didn’t make sense to be hopeful when it came to this woman. She had her own life, one that had no room for him—or his horses.

      “When are you heading in to the hospital?” Toben asked.

      Archer sighed. He worked part-time at the local veterinary teaching hospital. His extensive experience with exotic animals made him the resident expert on everything that wasn’t a cat or dog. “Shortly.”

      His current patient, a poisoned cockatoo, was almost recovered, his feathers returning to their normal bright white. But the bird was finicky about being handled and seemed to tolerate Archer best when it came to taking his meds.

      He