The Rancher's Redemption. Melinda Curtis

to ride. She’d asked him to the Sadie Hawkins dance in the seventh grade, but they’d both been awkward about it, because what did you do with the opposite sex when you were almost thirteen? When Ben was fourteen and in high school, he had the answer to that question, but he’d moved on to dating Rachel’s best friend, Zoe Petit. Back in the day, Rachel and Zoe were always made-up and dressed-up, looking like they went to school in a Beverly Hills zip code.

      After Ben graduated law school, he and Zoe had made wedding plans. Rachel had been Zoe’s maid of honor—meaning she was supposed to stand up at the altar, smile serenely and hold Zoe’s bouquet while the preacher said his words. Instead, Rachel had stood up to Ben in the church aisle, smiled like she wanted to kill him and then told Ben that Zoe had run off with a wealthier Blackwell—Ben’s grandfather.

      Kind of made it hard to look at Rachel’s pretty face after that.

      Today, Rachel wasn’t so put-together. She’d straightened her blond hair, but missed a long lock on the side. The eyeliner beneath her left eye was heavier than the line beneath her right. And the pink blouse beneath her navy suit jacket was wrinkled with a stain near the neckline. He wasn’t so principled that he didn’t take a little pleasure in seeing how far the mighty had fallen.

      “Lookin’ good, Rach.” Ben ran a hand over his hair once more. Behind her on the credenza was a picture of a baby, a cute one as babies went. Round face, big brown eyes, a thatch of blond hair. Brought to mind another baby and another court case. Ben didn’t let his gaze linger. He gave Rachel a peacemaking smile and reached across the desk to shake her hand. “Is that another one of your sister’s babies?”

      “Still the charmer, I see.” Rachel’s fingers were small and cold. They convulsed around Ben’s hand before she drew back, rubbing her palm over her skirt as if he had germs.

      No surprise in that handshake. As adults, the Blackwells and the Thompsons were about as friendly as the Hatfields and the McCoys.

      Ben flattened his smile out of existence. Best get to the point. “I hear there’s an issue over river water rights.” That’s why he’d returned to Falcon Creek. At his twin’s urging, not his grandfather’s. Big E had apparently gone on drive-about in his thirty-foot mobile home and wasn’t taking calls.

      For centuries, ranchers in Montana’s high country had been fighting over water rights. Water nourished crops. Crops fed cattle. Cattle was sold to pay bills. Limited water meant skinny cattle, small herds and limited income. Permission to divert river water for agriculture or to communities was determined in court and by the state water board, and was based on several factors, including historical use and legal precedent. Properties and towns were assigned allotments and priorities. Those in first position had first rights to river water even if they were farther downstream. Ben and Big E had won the first position from the Double T five years ago with a slick piece of legal wrangling that should be iron-clad.

      “The Double T has decided it’s time to revisit your rights.” Rachel opened a thin manila folder. “I’ve done some research with the water district and it appears the Blackwell Ranch hasn’t been using their allotment of water, which—as you know—means the claimant with secondary rights can divert more river water. And the ranch with second rights—as you know—is the Double T.”

      She’d done research?

      Ben was surprised, but not worried. This was Rachel Thompson. She used to copy off his test in Mrs. Whitecloud’s science class. There’d be no competition here. He’d graduated from Harvard and practiced law in New York City. Rachel had graduated from the University of Montana and only ever practiced in Falcon Creek.

      Rachel thought she could break the deal Ben had drawn up five years ago? Not on her best day.

      He gave her a pitying smile. “I haven’t seen your brief yet, but—”

      “I have a copy for you here, along with Exhibit A, the Blackwell Ranch’s year-to-year river water usage.” Rachel handed Ben a few pages, a challenging spark in her brown eyes.

      For the first time since arriving in Falcon Creek, Ben felt like doing more than muttering.

      He sat up straighter and scanned the brief. But his mind was chugging along an unpleasant train of thought. Both ranches relied on the river for water. The Blackwell Ranch also had rights to an underground reservoir, although it was their practice to use aquifer water only if the river was low. But there was a third player in the water game. Decades ago, the Falcon County Water Company had won legal access to the metered pumps monitoring river water use on both ranches, claiming someday the community’s needs might supersede theirs.

      Rachel shouldn’t have the Blackwell Ranch’s water information. She shouldn’t have filed a lawsuit with the court either. There were new housing developments south of Falcon Creek. Unused water would make the water company salivate. There were legal firms out there being paid to watch for opportunities just like this.

      He should know. Up until last week, he’d worked at one and as soon as he wrapped things up here, he hoped to work for another.

      And then Ben noticed something odd in her brief. Battle alarms went off in his head, ringing in his ears. “Why are you mentioning aquifer rights? I thought this case was about river water use.”

      Rachel’s smile contradicted the wrinkled blouse and frizzy lock of hair. “We’d like to establish with the court that the aquifer provides you with more than enough water. More than enough,” she repeated.

       More than enough as in...more than enough to share?

      There was something about Rachel’s attitude that made Ben wonder...

       Is she going to make a run for aquifer access?

      She couldn’t. Not without a land ownership claim. And to do that, she’d have to suspect the Double T had rights to the property above the reservoir. Or she’d have to have proof of...

      The alarm bells rang louder.

       She knows.

      Ben sucked in thin mountain air.

      She couldn’t know. Big E may be the worst grandparent on the planet, but he was one of the best businessmen Ben knew. The proof Rachel needed to obtain aquifer water rights was in Big E’s safe.

      Or it had been five years ago.

       A lot can change in five years, boy.

      Ben wanted to tell his brothers this was nothing serious.

      But there was something about Rachel’s smile that made him nervous.

      And nervous lawyers didn’t run.

      * * *

      RACHEL THOMPSON’S HANDS SHOOK.

      She clenched her fingers and tucked her hands beneath her arms, watching Ben pull away in a black Mercedes blanketed with dust that dulled the expensive car’s shine.

      Ben Blackwell was going down, along with the rest of his swindling family.

      Thanks to her anonymous guardian angel, Rachel thought she had what she needed to get the Double T’s river rights back and to put the Blackwell Ranch in secondary position for water from Falcon Creek. Her confidence should have been unflappable.

      And yet, her hands shook.

      Because Ben Blackwell was intimidating. Perfect walnut brown hair. Strong chin. Cold blue eyes that judged her just as harshly as she’d judged others as a teenager. Tailored suit and red silk tie. Ben spared no expense to look like a rich and powerful attorney who’d crush the opposition beneath his fine Italian loafer.

      For heaven’s sake, those shoes cost as much as the used truck she was driving.

      He’d looked at Rachel as if she was a speck of dust, an inconvenience that ruined his shine, just like the dust on his car.

      Five years ago, she’d been a speck of dust. She’d been