Her Guardian Rancher. Brenda Minton

were making it. She, Jamie and Granddad. They’d always made it and they would continue to do so.

      Yes, it would have been nice to have Andy’s help. But Andy was gone. No use crying over what couldn’t be changed.

      The door behind her vibrated with a pounding fist knocking just about where her shoulders touched the wood. She jumped back, letting out an unfortunate squeal.

      “I know you’re there,” Daron called out, his voice muffled through the thick wood.

      She didn’t move, didn’t speak. Surely he would take the hint and go away.

      “I want to check and make sure everything is okay. And I’m not going anywhere until we know Pete isn’t coming back.”

      Pete might return. She should have thought of that. Of course he would return. Usually he came during the day, demanding money she didn’t have. Andy had divorced her just prior to deploying and he’d made Pete his one and only beneficiary.

      She’d called him after he deployed, to tell him he was going to be a dad. He’d made promises about the two of them and she’d told him they could talk when he got home, not when he was thousands of miles away and she was still hurt by his betrayal and him walking away from their marriage. Slowly, hesitantly, she touched the lock, took a deep breath and opened the door. Her gaze slid up, her eyes locking with the gray eyes of the man standing on her front porch. Drat, but the man made her feel safe. As much as he annoyed her. As much as she wanted him to go away.

      “Well, you opened the door.” His voice was low and rumbled, sliding over her, causing goose bumps to go up her arms. She hugged herself tight, her hand touching a spot on her opposite arm and feeling a sticky dampness.

      “Ouch.” She glanced down. Her hand came away stained with blood.

      “You’re hurt. Did he do that?”

      “I backed into the china cabinet. But I’m fine.”

      “We need to call 911 and let them look for him.” He took her by the uninjured arm and started through the house with her, guiding her as if he knew the way.

      “We don’t need to call the police. He won’t be back tonight. He’s just a stupid, messed-up kid.”

      “A stupid, messed-up kid who’s on drugs and breaking into homes. Let me look at your arm.”

      “I’m fine. You can go.” Bravado didn’t work when her voice shook, from fear, from aftershock.

      “Let me take a look anyway. Even though we both know you’re fine. Is this the first time he’s broken in?”

      She nodded as he led her into the kitchen. Without warning, his hands went to her waist and he lifted, setting her on the counter.

      “Would you stop manhandling me?”

      He grinned at that, as if he thought she didn’t truly mean it, and he went about, rummaging through cabinets until he found salve and bandages. He wet a rag under the sink and returned. Without looking at her he took hold of her and wiped at the gash on her arm. She flinched and he held her steady, smiling a little but still not looking at her.

      That gave her time to study his downturned face, his eyelashes, the whiskers on his cheeks, the column of his throat.

      She swallowed and tried to pull away. He glanced up then, his dark gray eyes studying her face so intently she felt a surge of heat in her already-flushed cheeks.

      “How did you do this?” he asked as he dried the cut and then applied salve.

      “I bumped into the china cabinet. Maybe I hit a rough edge.”

      “Maybe,” he said. He opened the bandage and placed it over the wound. “It’s pretty deep.”

      “I’ve had worse.”

      His hand slid from her arm and he moved, putting distance between them. His scent—country air, pine and something Oriental—drifted away as he backed against the opposite counter. She inhaled. Oh, and sandalwood.

      No, she didn’t want to notice his scent. Or his eyes. She didn’t have time to notice him, to notice that she was female, still young and still willing to be attracted to a man like him.

      “So this wasn’t the first time he’s been here?” he asked, his gaze intent, serious.

      “No, it wasn’t. He typically comes during the day. He likes to show up as I’m leaving Duke’s.” She’d started waitressing at Duke’s No Bar and Grill last year, just to make ends meet. Between her tips and her grandfather’s Social Security, they were making it.

      Someday she’d finish her degree. She was taking classes online, and next year she would be finished and licensed to teach. Until then she did what she could. Breezy Martin, Jake Martin’s wife, watched Jamie the few hours a day that she worked. She did her best to keep her daughter in an environment with few other children. It was important that Jamie stay healthy.

      “You could get a restraining order,” he suggested, still leaning against the counter. His arms were crossed over his chest.

      “I don’t want to do that. He was Andy’s brother. Our marriage ended, but that doesn’t mean I’m angry or that I want to cause problems.”

      “He’s causing you problems.” He brushed a hand through his unruly hair, the light brown color streaked with blond from the sun.

      “He’s causing himself problems. He’s an addict. My getting a restraining order won’t cure him of that. His parents would use it against me. I took one son and I’d be taking the other.”

      “Took their son? You didn’t take Andy.” He glanced away. “I did.”

      “He volunteered for service in Afghanistan because he wanted to get away from me. If not for our divorce, he would still be here.”

      He opened his mouth to speak but then shook his head. “You’re wrong.”

      She shrugged, unsure of what to say to that. She guessed she knew she was wrong. But right or wrong didn’t change anything. Andy was gone. Jamie would never know her father. A family had lost their son.

      “Neither of us can go back,” she finally said. Because she thought they both wrestled with the past. Why else had he been driving by at this hour?

      “No,” he agreed. “We can’t.”

      They stood there for several long minutes, the only sound the ticking of the clock and the hum of the refrigerator. He cleared his throat and moved away from the counter.

      “I have to go. Will you be okay?”

      “Of course I’ll be okay.”

      Wasn’t she always?

      As she walked with him to the front door, she thought about the ten-year-old girl who had lost both parents and had been sent to live with a grandfather she barely knew. On the drive to Houston he’d repeatedly glanced at her and asked if she was okay. Each time she’d nodded to assure him. But each time he refocused on the road she would shut her eyes tight to hide the tears.

      After a while she had been okay. They’d moved from Houston to this house. She’d learned to be a farm girl from Braswell, wearing whatever her grandfather thought she needed. Usually jeans, scruffy farm boots and T-shirts.

      She could look back now and realize that in time she’d been able to deal and she’d been happy.

      Life wasn’t perfect. God hadn’t promised perfection. He’d promised to be with her, to give her strength and peace. She knew there were mountains looming in her near future. She also knew they would get through the tough times. They would survive.

      She had to. There was no choice.

      Daron stood on the front porch, tall and powerful, a man most women would want to lean on. Just moments ago, she’d been that woman, leaning into his strong arms.