New Year, New Man: A Kiss on Crimson Ranch / The Dance Off / The Right Mr. Wrong

“What?”

“Not yet. And not to you, Mother.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Rose darted a worried glance toward the cowboy, whose hands fisted in front of his oversize belt buckle. “What choice do you have?”

“I’m not sure.” Sara turned to the attorney. “Can you give me directions to the ranch?”

“I’ll write them down,” he said, and with obvious relief, disappeared into the back office.

“What kind of game are you playing?” Her mother pointed a French-tipped finger at Sara. “We both know you’re desperate for money. You don’t belong on that ranch.” Rose’s tone was laced with condescension. “She had no business leaving it to you.”

Decades of anger boiled to the surface in Sara. “She did, and maybe if you’d look in the mirror beyond the fake boobs and Botox you’d see why. Maybe she wanted to keep it out of your hot little hands.” She leaned closer. “Want to talk about that?”

Her mother recoiled for an instant, then straightened. “You don’t have a choice.”

“No.” Sara’s spine stiffened. “I didn’t have a choice when I was eight and begged you not to take me on another round of auditions. I didn’t have a choice when I was thirteen and I wanted to quit the show after the assistant director came on to me. I didn’t have a choice at seventeen when you checked me into rehab for exhaustion because the publicity would help the fans see me as an adult.”

“If you’d taken my advice, you wouldn’t be in the position you are now. I had your best interest at heart. Always.”

Sara laughed. Actually laughed out loud in her mother’s face. The statement was that absurd. “You tell yourself whatever you need to make it through the day. We both know the truth. Here’s the kicker. Right now I do have a choice.” She gripped the keys hard in her fist. “Stay away from me, Mother. Stay off of my property or I’ll have you hauled off to the local pokey.”

“You wouldn’t—”

Sara met her angry gaze. “Try me.”

She flicked a gaze at Jason Crenshaw, who’d returned to the office’s lobby. “I’ll be in touch,” she said and took the piece of paper he handed her. Without another glance at Rose, she reached for the door, but a large hand on her arm stopped her.

“You’re making a big mistake here, missy,” the aging Marlboro man told her, his voice a harsh rasp.

She shrugged out of his grasp. She’d been intimidated by far scarier men than this old coot. “What’s new?” she asked, and pushed out into the too-clean mountain air.

* * *

Josh Travers took a deep breath, letting the fresh air clear his muddled head. He’d been doing trail maintenance on the hiking path behind the main house for over three hours, moving logs to reinforce the bridge across a stream that ran between the two properties. His knee had begun throbbing about forty-five minutes into the job. Now it felt like someone had lit a match to his leg. Josh could tolerate the physical pain. What almost killed him was the way the ache radiated into his brain, making him remember why he was stuck here working himself to the point of exhaustion on a cool spring morning.

What he’d lost and left behind. Voices whispering he’d never get it back. The pain was a constant reminder of his monumental fall—both literal and figurative.

He turned toward the house and, for the first time, noticed a silver sedan parked out front. He didn’t recognize the car as any of the locals. He squinted and could just make out California plates.

Damn.

He thought of his daughter, Claire, alone in her bedroom, furiously texting friends from New York.

Double damn.

If his leg could have managed it, he’d have run. Instead, he walked as fast as his knee would allow, trying to hide his limp—just in case someone was watching. It was all he could do not to groan with every step.

By the time he burst through the back door, he was panting and could feel sweat beading on his forehead. He stopped to catch his breath and heard the unfamiliar sound of laughter in the house. Claire’s laughter.

He closed his eyes for a moment and let it wash over him, imagining that she was laughing at one of the lame jokes he regularly told to elicit a reaction. One he never got.

He stopped short in the doorway between the back hall and the kitchen. Claire’s dark head bent forward into the refrigerator.

“How about cheese?” she asked. “Or yogurt?”

“Really, we’re fine” a voice answered, and Josh’s gaze switched like radar to the two women sitting on stools at the large island at the edge of the kitchen. One looked in her late thirties, two thick braids grazing her shoulders. She wore no makeup and might have a decent figure, but who could tell with the enormous tie-dye dress enveloping most of her body. She smiled at Claire and something about her made Josh relax a fraction.

His attention shifted to the other woman, and he sucked in another breath. She tapped painted black fingernails on the counter as her eyes darted around the room. Her long blond hair was pulled back in a high ponytail; streaks of—was that really fire-engine red?—framed her face. The same blazing color coated her mouth, making her lips look as plump as an overripe strawberry. He had a sudden urge to smear her perfect pout with his own mouth, as if the most important thing in the world was for him to know if it tasted as delicious as it looked.

His body tightened, and he realized with a start that his knee had company in the throbbing department.

No way.

Her lips parted, and he forced his gaze to her eyes. She stared back at him with an expression that said she knew just what he was thinking.

No how.

Her eyes were pale blue, a color made almost silver by the heavy liner that rimmed them. Her skin was unnaturally pale, and he wondered for a moment if she was into that vampire-zombie junk Claire had told him about. He wouldn’t put anything past one of those Hollywood types.

“Josh, look who’s here. Can you believe it?” Claire gushed. He studied his daughter, who’d spoken in primarily monotone grunts since she’d arrived at the ranch a month earlier, but now thrummed with excitement.

“Call me Dad. Not Josh,” he told her.

“Whatever.” She gave him one of her patented eye rolls. “It’s Serena Wellens.” Claire shot a glance at the women. “I mean Sara Wells. But you know who she is, right? A real-life star here in our kitchen.”

“A real-life star?” Josh didn’t subscribe to Entertainment Weekly, but he was pretty sure Sara Wells hadn’t been considered a “real star” for close to a decade now. Josh eyed Sara, who wore a faded Led Zeppelin T-shirt and capri sweatpants that hugged her hips like...nope. That was not where he needed his thoughts to go.

Sara pushed back from the counter. “Your kitchen?” she asked, raising a brow. “That’s not what Mr. Crapshoot told me.”

“You saw Jason Crenshaw.”

“Yep.” She jangled a set of keys in front of her. “Looks like you’ve got a little ’splaining to do, Daddy-O.”

Maybe he shouldn’t have questioned the “star” bit. What did he know about Hollywood and celebrities? If a former child actor who hadn’t had a decent job in years wanted to consider herself a star, it was no business of his. He knew guys who hadn’t gotten onto the back of a bull for decades, but their identity was still wrapped up in being a bull rider.

Not Josh, though.

He’d had his years in the ring. Made a pretty good living at it. Broken some records. Truth be told, it had been his whole life. The only thing he’d ever been a success at was bull riding. But the moment they’d wheeled him out of that last event in Amarillo, his kneecap smashed into a zillion bits, he’d known he was done. His world would never be the same. He walked away and never looked back. Hung up his Stetson and traded the Wranglers for a pair of Carhartts.

People had told him he had options. He could try announcing. Get hired on with a breeding operation. Coach young riders. That last one was the biggest laugh. Just the smell of the arena made Josh’s fingers itch to wrap around a piece of leather. He could no sooner have a career on the periphery of riding than a drunk could tend bar night after night. Being that close to the action and not able to participate would kill him.

A couple of times in the hospital and during rehab, he’d almost wished the accident had done the job. His gaze flicked to Claire, who looked between Sara and him with a mix of confusion and worry on her delicate features. She looked like her mother. Both a blessing and a curse, if you asked him.

At the end of the day, she was the reason he’d made it this far after the accident. He wasn’t going to let some two-bit tabloid diva mess with his plans.

He forced a smile and turned his attention back to Sara. “About that,” he began.

He watched her sense the change in him and stiffen. Charm, buddy. The groupies thought you had it. Let’s see what you’ve still got.