Own the Night. Debbi Rawlins

had no friends. Never in a hundred years could Alana imagine her having a conversation like the one she herself had just had with Pam. It was a small thing, perhaps, and there were many qualities passed on to her from her mother for which Alana was grateful.

      She also appreciated the top-notch education she’d been provided, the fabulous trips abroad, the trust fund that guaranteed she’d never have to worry about her future. But the perks had come at a price. A normal childhood had been the trade-off. No sleepovers or going off to summer camp or attending Friday-night school football games like her classmates. No father to read her stories or tuck her in at night.

      When she was younger, Alana had thought often about how her life might’ve been different if she’d had a more traditional upbringing. She’d even considered inquiring about the man who’d fathered her. One particular time she’d been so furious with Eleanor for planning a Caribbean trip for them the weekend of the junior prom that she’d nearly asked her mother why she’d bothered having a child.

      But Alana hadn’t asked. Instead, she’d sneaked out of her room late that night. She’d made it only five blocks in their posh neighborhood when the police picked her up, assuming she was whacked out on drugs, given the way she was furiously muttering to herself. When they’d returned her home, Eleanor hadn’t raised her voice, not even an eyebrow. She’d merely opened the door, thanked the police in that cool, elegant voice of hers, while Alana raced up the stairs to her room.

      Until dawn she’d waited in agony for her bedroom door to open, for Eleanor to lash out at her. The lecture never came. She hadn’t been grounded, no privileges were taken away, and later, when they’d sat across the table from each other while the housekeeper served them breakfast, Eleanor had smiled that charming smile she’d perfected, and reviewed the itinerary of their Caribbean trip as if nothing had happened.

      It was then that Alana recognized the truth of their relationship. She’d finally understood her role. Eleanor hadn’t necessarily wanted a child; she’d needed a companion. Marriage had never even been considered. After all, what man could meet her expectations?

      But a child? Perfect, really, because it gave Eleanor the opportunity to mold Alana into someone who suited her mother’s preferences. Infuriatingly, the plan had worked far too well. For all Alana’s good intentions, she ended up bending to Eleanor’s will far too often.

      Alana blinked at the monitor when the unimaginative galaxy screen saver obliterated the picture of the Sundance Dude Ranch that had been there a second ago. She touched the mouse and recalled the website, her gaze sweeping from the beautiful Arabian to the cowboy straddling the animal. Hot guys. Right. What was Pam thinking? She knew Alana’s taste was more sophisticated than that, in clothes, in men….

      Although she had to admit these were some pretty nice specimens. She moved in for a closer look at their faces, but two of the cowboys had their hats pulled low. The third one had his brim tipped back and was very good-looking, but on the young side. They were the McAllister brothers, owners and operators along with their sister and mother, according to the blurb. The ranch had been in the family for several generations, but only recently had they opened their doors to paying guests.

      Alana had to smile. Yeah, she’d just bet the place was popular, especially with women looking for a vacation fling. Out of curiosity, she clicked on the descriptions of the activities offered and, impressed, started skimming the reviews.

      Just as she figured, the ranch was solidly endorsed, and so were the men. Some of the guests had included photos of their vacation, and Montana was undeniably beautiful country, with breathtaking views of the snowcapped Rocky Mountains, open meadows and storybook streams. Though the highlight for most of the reviewers had been—big surprise—the men who worked the ranch. A whole slew of photographs were dedicated to the brothers, the hired hands, the town’s sheriff….

      She peered closer. Yes, she could understand why some women might find Sheriff Calder appealing. Alana wasn’t one for a man in uniform, certainly not half a uniform. Along with his official tan shirt, he wore scuffed cowboy boots and worn jeans—wore them quite well, in fact. But it was his strong, chiseled jaw that caught her fancy, even if his sun-streaked brown hair was a bit too long.

      Her phone buzzed, signaling an incoming text.

      She pulled open her drawer to check the display, though she knew who it was, and that she wasn’t about to answer.

      Eleanor’s message was brief. She’d be in a meeting for an hour, but needed to talk to her immediately after.

      Alana’s gaze moved back to her computer screen and the blue Montana sky. Outside her door she heard laughter. The mailroom staff had been assigned packing duty, and it sounded as if her office might be next on their list.

      Montana, huh? God, was she seriously considering this? Was the idea too crazy? She pushed her fingers through her hair, trying to recall when, exactly, she’d last been horseback riding. But a dude ranch?

      Hell, why not? She wasn’t allergic to fresh air. And she was getting tired of sailing in the Caribbean and visiting the Hamptons. Not that she ever had much leisure time.

      Who was she kidding? She felt like a teenager again, trying to ditch her mother. The thing was, she hadn’t really lied to Pam. Technically, Alana could say no to Eleanor, except the woman had a way of digging in her claws and making Alana feel guilty as hell. Sometimes it was just a look, a single word, a lift of a brow, and Alana was toast. She’d try not to give in. She’d call herself every kind of fool, because in all other aspects of her life she had a spine of steel.

      But when it came to her mom, the end result rarely varied. She’d beat herself up for being weak, throw in the reminder that Eleanor was a psychiatrist, for God’s sake, even without the power accorded all mothers to elevate or scar their children well into adulthood, if not for life. Alana would feel better for a few minutes, but then eventually give in and do what Eleanor wanted.

      Might as well wager on a dude ranch halfway across the country, on the off chance she’d actually have fun. Except no one could know, absolutely no one. Image was everything in Alana’s business. Hell, her client base consisted primarily of sophisticated trendsetters and Fortune 500 companies. No, she thought as she clicked on Reservations, not a single person could know. She wouldn’t even tell Pam.

      NOAH CALDER STEPPED OUT OF HIS office and peered down Main Street. The Lemon sisters had finished decorating the Gazette’s window for Halloween, and moved on to hanging paper ghosts from the elm tree in the stamp-size park in the center of town.

      Normally, he would have gone home by now and left the evening shift to Roy. But it was Friday and the boys from the Circle K and the Double R had been paid earlier. Half of them would end up at the Watering Hole to shoot pool, get drunk, and mostly hang around hoping to get lucky with one of the women staying at the Sundance, who often ducked into the bar.

      In general the men behaved themselves, but Noah had promised Rachel McAllister that he’d keep an eye on her guests. Though to his way of thinking, it was the men who needed looking after. Most of the gals who’d been coming to town since the dude ranch opened weren’t the shy type. They knew what they wanted and weren’t afraid to ask for it.

      A couple of them had scared the hell out of him. Offering to buy him drinks, asking to take him to dinner or to go on moonlit rides … One bold young lady had asked if he’d take her somewhere to go skinny-dipping. And now even his deputies were giving him grief over it.

      He turned to look the other way and muttered an oath when he saw Avery Phelps bearing down on him.

      “You listen to me, Sheriff, and you listen good.” Flushed from spending too much time sidled up to Sadie’s bar, Avery shuffled down, shaking a scrawny fist in the air. “All this thievery business is on account of those McAllisters. And I ain’t the only one who wants to know what you’re gonna do about it.”

      Sighing, Noah shoved Avery’s fist out of his face. He was in no way threatening. In his prime, Avery might have topped off at five-seven, but age had him bent and bow-legged and a foot shorter than Noah. Even so, he knew the old