One Lucky Hero (28 page)

 

L
eah McCarran couldn't believe her luck as she popped the hood of her classic GTO and glanced behind her, down the deserted stretch of highway in the Northern California foothills. Steam poured from her radiator, and there wasn't a single car in sight.

She blew back a strand of her caramel-colored hair as the curl fell into her eye and caught on her mascaraed eyelashes. Even those felt like they were melting into solid clumps on her eyes. It was sweltering for mid-May, and, of course, her car decided to take a dump on the side of the highway today. She fanned herself with one hand as she looked down at the overheated engine. It probably wouldn't have been nearly this big a deal if her cell phone hadn't just taken a crap, too. To top off her miserable day, she'd spilled her iced coffee all over the damn thing getting out of the car and likely destroyed it once and for all.

This wasn't the way she'd hoped to start her new job or her new life at Heart Fire Ranch.

Walking back to the driver's side of the car, Leah had no clue what to do now. Luckily, her boss wasn't expecting her until this evening, and she'd had the foresight, knowing her penchant for bad luck, to leave early. But until some Good Samaritan decided to drive by
and
stop for her, she was S.O.L. She kicked the tire as she walked by. As if trying to deny her even that small measure of satisfaction, the sole of her worn combat boot caught in the tread, nearly making her fall over.

“Son of a—”

Leah caught herself against the side of the car, willing the tears of frustration to subside, back into the vault where they belonged. That was one thing she'd learned as a child: tears meant weakness.

And showing weakness was asking for more pain.

She bent over into the car, looking for something to mop up the sticky mess the coffee was making on the restored leather interior of her car. She reached for the denim shirt she'd been wearing over her tank top before she'd left Chowchilla this morning, before the air had turned from chilled to hell-on-earth-hot.

“Shit,” she muttered. Trying to sop up coffee with denim was like trying to mop a floor with a broom: it did absolutely no good.

“Hot damn! That is the most incredible thing I've seen all day.”

The crunch of tires pulling off the asphalt of the highway was a welcome sound, but the awe she heard in the husky voice was enough to send a chill down her spine. Leah threw the shirt down onto the coffee-soaked floorboard. Standing up, she spun on the heel of her boot, her fists clenching at her sides as she tried to control the instinct to punch a man in the mouth.

“Excuse me? Do you really have so little class?”

“Oh, shit! No, that's not . . .” She watched as the man unfolded himself from a late model Challenger and shut the door, jogging across the empty two-lane highway to her side. “I'm sorry, I meant the car.”

Leah crossed her arms under her breasts and arched a single, disbelieving brow. “Sure, you did.”

A blush flooded his dark caramel skin. “I swear I meant the car. Not that you're not . . . I mean . . . crap.” He cursed again. “Let me try this again. Do you need some help?”

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T
he cowboy winked at her. Delaney Collins lowered her camera lens and glanced around twice to make sure, but no one else behind the roping chute was looking his direction. Heat flooded her cheeks as he followed up the wink with a grin, and a multitude of wary warnings sounded off in her heart. The last thing she'd wanted was to catch the rodeo circuit star's interest. She pretended to adjust the settings, then raised the camera to her eye once again, determined to fulfill her duty and take the required photos of the handsome dark-haired devil.

Except he wouldn't stand still. He climbed off his buckskin horse, handed the reins to a nearby gatekeeper, gave a young kid in the stands a high five, and then walked straight toward her.

Delaney tightened her hold on the camera, wishing she could stay hidden behind the lens, and considered several different ways to slip away unnoticed. But she knew she couldn't avoid him forever. Not when it was her job to shadow the guy and capture the highlights from his steer-wrestling runs. Maybe he only wanted to check in to make sure she was getting the right shots?

Most cowboys like Jace Aldridge had large egos to match their championship-sized belt buckles, one reason she usually avoided these events and preferred capturing images of plants and animals. But when the lead photographer for
True Montana Magazine
called in sick before the event and they needed a fill-in, Delaney had been both honored and excited to accept the position. Perhaps after the magazine viewed her work, they'd hire her for more photo ops. Then she wouldn't have to rely solely on the profits from her share of her family's guest ranch to support herself.

She swallowed hard as the stocky, dark-haired figure, whose image continuously graced the cover of every western periodical, smiled, his eyes on her—yes, definitely her—as he drew near.

He stretched out his hand. “Jace Aldridge.”

She stared at his chapped knuckles. Beside her, Sammy Jo gave her arm a discreet nudge, urging her to accept his handshake. After all, it would be impolite to refuse. Even if, in addition to riding rodeo, he was a hunter, an adversary of the animals she and her wildlife rescue group regularly sought to save.

Lifting her gaze to meet his, she replied, “Delaney Collins.”

“Nice to meet you,” Jace said, his rich, baritone voice smooth and . . . dangerously distracting. His hand gave hers a warm squeeze, and although he glanced toward Sammy Jo to include her in his greeting, it was clear who held his real interest. “Are you with the press?”

Delaney glanced down at the Canon EOS 7D with its high-definition 20.2 megapixel zoom lens hanging down from the strap around her neck. “Yes. I'm taking photos for
True Montana
.”

The edges of his mouth curved into another smile. “I haven't seen you around before.”

“I—I'm not around much, but Sammy Jo here,” she said, motioning toward her friend to divert his attention, “used to race barrels. You must know her. Sammy Jo Macpherson?”

Jace gave her friend a brief nod. “I believe we've met.”

“Del's a great photographer,” Sammy Jo said, bouncing the attention back to her.

Jace grinned. “I bet.”

“It's the lens,” Delaney said, averting her gaze, and Sammy Jo shot her a disgruntled look as if to say,
Smarten up, this guy's in to you. Don't blow it!

Except she had no desire to get involved in a relationship right now. And definitely not one
with a hunter
. She needed to focus on her two-and-a-half-year-old daughter, Meghan, and help her family's guest ranch bring in enough money to support them.

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Montana Hearts: True Country Hero
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Staff Sergeant Danny MacGregor has always said military and matrimony don't mix, but if there's one person he would break all his rules for, it's Bree—his first friend, first love, first everything.

Bree Dunbar has battled cancer, twice. What she wants most is a fresh start. By some miracle her wish is granted, but it comes with one major string attached—the man who broke her heart ten years before.

The rules for this marriage of convenience are simple: when she's ready to stand on her own two feet, she'll walk away and he'll let her go. Only, things don't always go according to plan . . .

 

S
he pulled into the garage of her parents' home and stared in the rearview mirror at the house across the street where Danny used to live. The same one where he was now staying. She had no idea how much longer he'd be in town, but odds weren't in her favor he would just leave her be. She'd thrown down the gauntlet and Daniel Patrick MacGregor had never been one to back down from a challenge.

Hitting the garage remote, the house slowly disappeared from view as the door lowered to the ground. Bree headed inside, her mother greeting her at the back door as she opened it.

“Can I help you carry some things in?” she asked while drying her hands on a dish towel.

“Nothing to bring in.”

Bree scooted past her mother, not yet ready to rehash the morning's events.

“I thought you were going to the store?”

“I'll go back later.”

She grabbed the ibuprofen from the cabinet by the sink, the dull ache behind her eyes now reaching epic proportions. After swallowing two small tablets with a single drink of water, she headed for her bedroom.

“Is everything okay, sweetheart? You look flushed.”

“Fine,” she said, ducking out of her mother's reach. Twenty-eight years old and her mother still wanted to check her temperature with the back of her hand.

“Are you sure? You're not running a fever, are you? Your immune system still isn't where it needs to be. You need to be careful—”

“I'm fine, Mom. I swear. Just going to lie down for a bit.”

Bree darted upstairs, escaping to the relative peace and quiet of her bedroom. She closed the door behind her, sighing in relief to see her mother wasn't hot on her heels.

She loved her dearly and wouldn't have survived chemo treatments without her, but sometimes her mother's care and concern was too much. Suffocating. And despite her best intentions, she was always reminding Bree that she'd been very sick, when all Bree wanted to do was put it behind her.

For now, she'd settle for crawling into bed and trying to forget the morning ever happened. As she closed the blinds, a familiar old truck pulled into the driveway across the street. The door flung open, and booted feet hit the concrete. Instinctively she jumped back from the window, not wanting Danny to think she'd been standing there, watching, waiting all this time for him to return home.

Bree held her breath and with the tips of her fingers lifted a single wooden slat so she could peek out. The old truck's passenger door sat open wide, but there was no sign of either brother. The screen door swung open and Danny bounded down the porch steps, reaching the truck in four long strides. He grabbed the last few grocery bags from the floorboard and shoved the door closed with his elbow. On his way back into the house he suddenly stopped and turned to look across the street. At her house. At her bedroom window.

Despite peering through a tiny gap no wider than an inch, she knew he could somehow see her. She could feel his gaze locked on hers. But he didn't drop the grocery bags on the front porch or storm across the street toward her. Instead, he just stood there. His expression completely unreadable.

Surely he wouldn't march across the street and start things up again right now? He wouldn't dare.

Oh, but he would
.

Maybe he expected her to do something. Wave. Stick out her tongue. Flip him the bird. Instead, like a deer caught in a hunter's sight, she stood frozen, unable to will herself away from the window. Then he did the very last thing she expected him to do.

He smiled.

A smile so wide, so bright, she hadn't seen the likes of one in over a decade. Although she didn't want to admit it, she'd missed that smile desperately and her heart squeezed painfully in her chest. Finally, Danny looked away, breaking eye contact, releasing her from his spell. As he turned to go inside, he shook his head, apparently unable to believe it himself.

For a long time after he went inside, Bree stood there looking out the window. And the more she replayed it in her mind, the more she began to wonder if she'd imagined the entire thing.

Only one thing was for certain—things between them were far from over.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Excerpt from
Change of Heart
copyright © 2016 by Tina Klinesmith.

Excerpt from
Montana Hearts: True Country Hero
copyright © 2016 by Darlene Panzera.

Excerpt from
Once and For All
copyright © 2016 by Cheryl Etchison Smith.

ONE LUCKY HERO
. Copyright © 2016 by Codi Gary. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

Avon, Avon Impulse, and the Avon Impulse logo are trademarks of HarperCollins Publishers.

EPub Edition JUNE 2016 ISBN: 9780062372253

Print Edition ISBN: 9780062372277

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