Her Guardian Rancher. Brenda Minton

      “Yeah, that’s the one. He’s a pretty little pony.” Art brushed a hand through her hair. “Now, you be a good girl for your mommy and I’ll make chicken noodle soup for you for dinner. They say that’s a good cure for a cold. Better than my tea, I’ve been told.”

      Jamie grinned and the tension surrounding Emma’s heart eased just a bit. “We’ll be home soon, Art. Don’t try to fix that tractor by yourself. We’ll work on it together. If it has to wait until tomorrow, that’s fine.”

      Art frowned. “Now, don’t go getting sassy with me. I’ve been working on tractors since before you were born. I’m old, but I’m not feeble or ready for the rest home just yet.”

      “I agree, but there is no use getting hurt.”

      “No, there isn’t. But you don’t need to worry about me.” He gave her a quick hug. “Go call the doctor.”

      An hour later Emma was carrying Jamie through the Braswell Hospital toward the pediatric unit, where Dr. Ted assured her they had a bed waiting. He wanted to put Jamie on intravenous antibiotics and to run some tests. In Emma’s arms, Jamie felt too light, too small to be facing something so overwhelming.

      Emma felt so alone. She suddenly wanted her granddad there with her. Then she started thinking about Daron McKay, and how he’d been watching over them for the past three years. Right now she wouldn’t even complain about him being where he wasn’t invited. Because never in her life had she felt so alone. And never had she wanted company more than she did at that moment.

      As she approached the nurses’ station, a somewhat familiar face stepped out from behind the desk. Samantha Martin, now Jenkins, smiled at the two of them. Duke’s younger sister had a friendly openness about her. She’d married a couple of years ago, and from the tiny bump near her waistline, it appeared she might be expecting.

      “Ted said you were on your way up.” Samantha touched Jamie’s brow and offered a reassuring smile. “And you’ve got quite a fever. Let’s get you in bed and see if we can get you cooled down.”

      Emma followed Samantha down the hall and into a room with green walls and a view of an open field that lay beyond the hospital grounds. Samantha took over, placing Jamie in the bed, covering her with a light blanket and then kissing her forehead. Emma stood back, watching as the nurse moved about the room, turning the television on to a cartoon station and opening the curtains to give a clearer view of cattle grazing in the distance.

      Emma stepped into the hall to take a deep breath. She could do this. They would survive. She closed her eyes to say a heartfelt prayer for her daughter.

      * * *

      When Daron pulled up to the office, Boone’s truck was parked in front. Daron parked next to it and got out. Hard rain was falling from a sky heavy with clouds. He hurried through the front door, pulling off his jacket and tossing it on the back of a chair to dry.

      “You look bad,” Boone said, surveying him critically.

      “Thanks. It’s pouring.”

      “How’d last night’s job go?” Boone poured him a cup of coffee. “Here. That ought to help.”

      “Or rot my insides.” He sat down and put his booted feet on the top of the desk. “Not bad. The senator is a hard one to stay close to. Works the crowd like a...”

      “Politician?” Boone offered.

      “Yes, something like that.” He tossed his cowboy hat on his desk and ran a hand through hair that tended to curl in this weather. Daron took a sip of coffee and grimaced. “Let Lucy make the coffee next time.”

      “You say the most hurtful things,” Boone shot back, his mouth curving.

      “Hurtful but honest.” He took another sip of coffee and decided it wasn’t worth it. “I’m going to Duke’s for lunch. And coffee.”

      “Or maybe you’re just hoping Emma is there. She’s going to get tired of your version of babysitting. Or is this courting, Daron McKay–style?”

      “I’m not babysitting or courting. Where did you get that? I’m...” He rubbed a hand across his cheek. Man, he needed to shave. “I’m just doing what I promised.”

      Boone held up a hand to cut him off. “Stop. Andy volunteered to go with us.”

      “I trusted Afiza.”

      “Yeah, you did. And we trusted her brother. That doesn’t make you Emma Shaw’s keeper. It isn’t your fault Andy divorced her, or that he didn’t list her as a beneficiary.”

      “You’d think his family would want to help out.”

      “But they don’t,” Boone said. They’d had this conversation a hundred times before. “You can’t make sense of what doesn’t make sense, my friend. So either you keep hounding her, trying to help when she doesn’t want it. Or you walk away and let her live her life. The problem is, if you don’t mind me saying so, that you kind of like being in her life. You’re attached to Jamie. You like Art.”

      “They’re pretty easy to like.” He grabbed the mail piled on his desk and started opening envelopes. A few checks they’d been waiting for.

      A letter from his mom. Why would she send a letter rather than call? He slid his knife under the flap of the envelope and pulled out a card. No, it was an invitation. He glanced over it.

      “Something good?” Boone asked as he got up to pour himself another cup of coffee.

      “My mom, making a point.”

      “What’s that?”

      Daron glanced at the photograph on the front of the invitation, of a smiling blonde and her too-handsome fiancé. He opened the card and read over the details. “My ex-fiancée is getting married. This is my mom’s way of letting me know I’ve missed the boat.”

      “It isn’t like there aren’t plenty of boats out there.” Boone lifted his cup of coffee in salute, and the light glinted off his wedding band.

      “Spoken like a man who is tragically in love.”

      “Nothing tragic about it, my friend. So, will you go?”

      Daron glanced over the invitation and then shot it into the wastepaper basket. “I don’t have time for this. I’m going to run to the bank and make a deposit that will keep us solvent and help you pay off that pretty house you’ve built your wife.”

      He was heading for the door when the phone rang. He waited as Boone answered. Then he waited because the call seemed serious.

      “Well?”

      “First-responder call.” Boone shot him a look that unsettled him.

      “Who?”

      “Art Lewis. He’s cut his finger pretty badly and Emma isn’t there.”

      “I’ll drive on out there and make sure he’s okay,” Daron said as he headed out the door, Boone behind him.

      “Might as well,” Boone agreed. “I’ll follow you in my truck.”

      As they left town, the fire truck and rescue unit were leaving the rural fire station that served the Martin’s Crossing and Braswell area. Daron flipped on the first-responder light on his dash and fell in behind the emergency units.

      It took less than ten minutes and he was pulling up to the small home where Emma lived with her grandfather. Art was on the porch, a towel wrapped around his hand. Daron jumped from his truck and hurried past the other first responders.

      “What happened?” he asked as he reached the porch.

      Art grimaced. “That tractor. I’ve been trying to get that nut loosened up for ages, and of course today it came loose and my hand slipped. I cut a hunk out of my thumb.”

      Art started