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Mountain Heiress
Cassie Miles
Gabby Rousseau needs former rodeo king Zach Sheffield’s protection when the famous ranch she inherited is targeted by thieves – but it doesn’t stop Gabby from putting up a fight.Zach knows he’s better off tending to his horses than taming Gabby, but he’s never walked away from a challenge.


USA TODAY bestselling author Cassie Miles shows what happens when a big-city girl meets a sexy cowboy after inheriting a Colorado ranch.
Since quitting the rodeo circuit, Zach Sheffield hadn’t much time for people, never mind city folk. A stranger had inherited a famous ranch in their Colorado town, and worse than not knowing one end of a horse from the other, he pegged Gabby Rousseau as a mustang, for sure.
Local legend said that Gabby’s estate hid the Frenchman’s treasure, making it a frequent target for thieves. After the first break-in, Zach knew Gabby would need protection, but the beauty from the big city was putting up a fight. He knew he was better off tending to his horses than praying for a breakthrough…but then again, Zach had never met a mustang he couldn’t tame.

Though Gabby had never been a big fan of Westerns, she was mesmerized by the vision of a broadshouldered, long-legged, masculine cowboy in a black hat and denim jacket.
Beyond gorgeous, he was iconic and, at the same time, utterly original. He dismounted near the place where she’d gotten tangled up last night and he sauntered to the fence with a cool, looselimbed stride. When he pushed his hat back on his forehead and looked toward the house, she stepped behind the curtain so he wouldn’t see her staring.
Their meeting last night hadn’t been under the best of circumstances, and he certainly hadn’t done anything since then to make her think he was glad to see her. But she’d sensed chemistry between them. Maybe she and Zach would never have a relationship, but she could easily imagine some kissing in their future. She wouldn’t mind sticking around at the Roost long enough to see where things with Zach might go.
Though born in Chicago and raised in LA, USA TODAY bestselling author CASSIE MILES has lived in Colorado long enough to be considered a semi-native. The first home she owned was a log cabin in the mountains overlooking Elk Creek, with a thirty-mile commute to her work at the Denver Post.
After raising two daughters and cooking tons of macaroni and cheese for her family, Cassie is trying to be more adventurous in her culinary efforts. Ceviche, anyone? She’s discovered that almost anything tastes better with wine. When she’s not plotting Mills & Boon
Intrigue books, Cassie likes to hang out at the Denver Botanical Gardens near her high-rise home.
Mountain Heiress
USA TODAY Bestselling Author
Cassie Miles


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Gabby (Gabriella) Rousseau—Born and raised in Brooklyn, she’s a city girl whose dreams of becoming a fashion designer are put on hold when she inherits a house in the Colorado mountains.
Zach Sheffield—A former rodeo star and all-around cowboy, he owns a horse ranch and is renowned as a trainer/horse whisperer.
Daniel Rousseau—Gabby’s ne’er-do-well brother has a gambling problem and is always out to make a quick buck.
Michelle Rousseau—Gabby’s deceased great-aunt was a successful artist who left her Colorado home to Gabby and Daniel.
Rene Rousseau—Gabby’s other deceased great-aunt and the sister of Michelle. She stayed in Brooklyn and raised Gabby and her brother after their parents died.
Louis Rousseau—The ancestor who established the Rousseau dynasty in Colorado in the 1860s.
Charlotte Potter—A plain Jane teenager who cared for Michelle before she died and blossoms after a glittery makeover.
Rhoda Phillips—Zach’s housekeeper has a talent for organizing his business and for bookkeeping.
Jason Fox—The Aspen-based attorney acts as the executor of Michelle’s will.
Kevin Fox—The red-haired nephew of the attorney wants to become a professional snowboarder.
Harrison Osborne—The art dealer handling Michelle’s work has his hands full with cataloging all the paintings.
Ed Striker—The local handyman works for Osborne.
Sarah Bentley—Her nonprofit organization, Forest Preservation Society, is heavily endowed by Michelle Rousseau.
To Jerry Kreiter and, as always, to Rick.
Contents
Chapter One (#ue6e53b12-40a1-5acd-8b22-b860f2e9cbbf)
Chapter Two (#ud8725135-06e3-599d-b9c8-14739b5c3514)
Chapter Three (#ue111820c-326d-5c54-b138-588dfba3245f)
Chapter Four (#ue2925d82-d033-5649-8a30-bf311aea8db3)
Chapter Five (#u309e6757-6677-5ea3-b276-2775e311e1d8)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One
The night was never this dark in Brooklyn. If she’d been back in her home borough, Gabby Rousseau could have counted on a streetlamp or the glow from a sidewalk window or the never-dimmed glare of Manhattan across the river. But here? In the Colorado mountains? She couldn’t see ten feet in front of her, even with her headlights on high beam. Heavy clouds blocked the starlight as sheets of rain pummeled the roof of her poor, tired, little Ford hatchback.
She considered pulling over until the storm let up but she didn’t dare. What if her tires sank into the mud at the edge of this skinny road that was more pothole than pavement? Then where would she be? Stuck. In the rain. Without a yellow cab for hundreds of miles.
Dis-as-ter! Her cell phone was out of juice, and the charger didn’t work. She had no GPS. For the past hundred miles, the car had been making a clunk that got louder and louder. The heater didn’t work, which meant the defroster was defunct and she had to crack a window, which let in the rain. She was wet and cold and, just when she thought it couldn’t get any worse, the lightning started.
Zigzag bolts of raw electricity slashed the darkness. In the flash, she saw a stark vision. The clawing branches of a thick forest seemed to grab at her car. Jagged rocks appeared at the edge of the road like evil, ancient sentinels. She glimpsed movement. Something was out there. Probably zombies.
She’d been driving four days—four long, miserable days—across the country. Finally, she was close to her destination. She couldn’t give up.
Thunder rumbled like a barrage of cannons. Her fingers tensed on the steering wheel. This morning when she’d started out, the June weather had been hot enough that she’d put on a pair of high-waisted chino shorts and platform sandals—an unfortunate choice of outfit because she was freezing cold. Her legs rippled with goose bumps. Her toes were numb.
Another bolt of lightning cut through the sky. The thunder roared and rumbled.
“Enough.” She couldn’t take much more. “Come on, Universe. Give me a break.”
If it stopped raining, she’d never criticize the weather again. Was the Universe open to a deal like that? “If I find my way, I’ll give up anything. No more chocolate. No more overdrafts in the checking account.”
She needed something bigger to deal with, something more important, something life-changing. She needed the barely worn, red-soled Christian Louboutin heels she’d picked up secondhand before she left civilization. “That’s right, the Louboutins. Go ahead, Universe. Take my shoes. Just let me find the place I’m looking for.”
A flash of lightning showed a carved wood sign: Rousseau’s Roost. An arrow pointed left. This is it!
As the thunder rattled around her, she made the turn. She had asked, and the Universe had answered. She was on her way, nearly there. Survival was within her grasp. Did she really have to give up the shoes?
The final stretch of road to Rousseau’s Roost was marked by deep ruts. On the plus side, she was moving away from the scary trees, heading across an open space with a barbed wire fence to her left. Things were looking better, much better. The rain seemed to be letting up.
In another crackle-boom of lightning, she saw the outline of a two-story house with a wraparound porch. In photographs, Rousseau’s Roost had a rustic charm that appealed to Gabby. She couldn’t believe she owned half of this property. She’d been on her own since she was eighteen, and her living space in Brooklyn had been a series of one-room apartments. Now she was a home owner with a house and a barn and acreage.
Her great-aunt Michelle—who Gabby had met exactly five times in her whole life—had left the property to Gabby and her older brother, Daniel, whom she hadn’t heard from since her twenty-third birthday party three years ago. Every attempt she’d made to find him and tell him about this strange windfall had fallen flat, which made her sad. With Aunt Michelle dead, her jerk of a brother was her only living relative. She wouldn’t really mind splitting the inheritance with him if they could be a family again.
When she parked in front of the house, the rain had slowed to a drizzle. She turned off the engine. It was entirely possible that the car wouldn’t start up again in the morning, but she’d deal with that problem when it happened.
The lawyer who’d contacted her had sent the key to the front door, which she had already attached to the key ring that held her car keys, a couple of keys to friends’ apartments that she really ought to mail back to them, a lipstick-sized container of pepper spray and one very special set of rhinestone-embellished keys that she had hoped would unlock her fondest dreams. She remembered the day when she and her three friends had used these keys to open the door to the storefront shop on Myrtle Street. For almost two years, they ran a little boutique where—in addition to seamstress work and fittings—Gabby got to show off her original designs. Then the money ran out.
She pulled her pink hoodie over her damp brown hair and shoved open the car door. All of her earthly belongings were jammed into her compact car, but her primary necessities were in a red polka-dot carry-on she’d kept on the passenger seat beside her. Wrestling that suitcase past the steering wheel, she started toward the front door. Mud splashed on her black platform sandals. No big tragedy, these shoes were past their prime.
The mountain sounds bore no resemblance to the hum of people and cars and electricity in Brooklyn. Out here, she could hear the splat of the raindrops, the rustle of wind through the branches of a leafy tree at the side of the house and—as she stepped onto the porch—a heavy thud like a door slamming. Had that sound come from inside the house?
She stood very still and listened with her ear against the door. She heard a creak and a shuffle as though someone was walking on tiptoe, trying not to be heard. But that couldn’t be right. Nobody was supposed to be here. The lawyer had told her that the house wasn’t occupied. Did she have an intruder? A squatter?
Her phone was dead so she couldn’t call 911 for help. She’d have to face this threat by herself. Okay, fine. I’m from the big city. I know how to handle muggers. First rule, don’t get too close. Second, make a loud yell to startle them. Rule number three, run like hell.
But where could she run? Turning around on the porch, she squinted through the misty rain until she saw the lights of another house in the distance. All she had to do was drive to the neighbor’s place.
Listening again, she didn’t hear another sound. Maybe she’d imagined the slamming door and the squeaky floorboards. If there wasn’t really an intruder, she’d feel like a dope, running away from an invisible boogeyman.
She cleared her throat and pitched her voice to a low, authoritative level. “Hello? Is anybody here?”
Nothing.
Setting her suitcase to one side, she turned the key in the front door until it clicked. When she eased the door open, the hinges whined. An old house like this was bound to make creaks and thumps and rustles. Stepping across the threshold, she reached for the place beside the door where a light switch ought to be. Her fingers glided down the wall. No switch.
The faint light from a couple of stars peeking around the edge of the clouds shone on the carpeted floor in the entryway. The curtains were drawn inside the house, making the interior even darker than outside. She stumbled into a large room, walking like a blind woman with her arms out in front of her until she bumped into a table with a lamp. Groping along the base, she found the switch and turned it on.
A pale glow lit up the parlor. Her great-aunt Michelle had been an artist and was fairly successful, even had some showings in Manhattan. Her taste showed in the eclectic furnishings, which were a crazy combo of claw-foot tables, sleek-lined sofas and jewel-toned pillows.
“Nice,” Gabby said. In spite of the desolation, she could get used to living in a place like this.
From the corner of her eye, she saw movement and whirled around. Standing on the carved, wood staircase in the entryway was the figure of a brown-haired woman in a long, white gown. Not a zombie. Maybe a ghost? Gabby blinked. Was Great-Aunt Michelle haunting the place?
“Who are you?” the ghost demanded.
“Me? Who are you?” Gabby shot back.
“Get out!”
“This is my house.” Gabby’s fingers tightened on the pepper spray. Ghost or not, this person was skinny and the voice was female. If this came down to a physical confrontation, Gabby liked her odds.
In a rush, the ghost descended the staircase. Her long, stringy hair fell past her shoulders almost to her waist. On the landing that was three steps up from the wooden newel post carved in the shape of a gargoyle, the ghost reached down. When she stood, she was holding a rifle.
“Now,” the ghost said. “Tell me who you are.”
The odds had shifted. Gabby had the good sense to be scared. She raised her hands beside her head and moved toward the staircase. If she could get past the ghost to the open door, she could run to her car and drive to the neighboring house, like she should have done when she first arrived.
“Take it easy,” Gabby said. “My name is Gabriella Rousseau. Michelle was my great-aunt.”
“You better have some identification.”
“No problem.” She was almost to the entryway. “My wallet is in my car.”
“Don’t take another step.”
This girl in the long nightgown couldn’t have been more than sixteen or seventeen, and she looked upset. Her eyes were red-rimmed as though she’d been crying. Maybe all she needed was a friend. Gabby tried a smile as she inched her way forward. “How about you put down the gun?”
“I told you not to move.”
“Okay, sure.” She kept her eye on the bore of the rifle. “You’ve got nothing to worry about. Look at me. Do I look dangerous?”
“You look stupid in those shorts.”
“They were a lot cuter when I put them on this morning.” Now wasn’t the time for a fashion critique. “Come on, put down the rifle.”
“No way. They might have sent you. They might be trying to trick me.”
“They? Who are they?”
“Just walk to the door, real slow. I’ll be right behind you. One false move and I’ll blow a hole in your back.”
No way was Gabby going to step into the line of fire. This girl was crazy, and she was trembling so hard that she might accidentally pull the trigger. Gabby needed to take control. As soon as she was even with the rifle, she made a quick pivot and dodged to one side. With her opposite hand, she fired a blast of pepper spray. She grabbed the long barrel of the rifle.
With surprising strength, the thin girl yanked the gun away from her. A gunshot exploded. The girl spewed a string of profanities that would have made a Brooklyn Teamster blush.
Gabby made another attempt to get the gun, but the girl wouldn’t let go. They wrestled for the weapon. Gabby yanked hard. Her hands slipped, and she fell backward onto her butt. She dropped her keys and pepper spray. The girl waved the rifle blindly and blasted the head off the wood gargoyle at the foot of the staircase.
It was time for rule number three: run like hell.
Scrambling to her feet, Gabby charged through the open door and dived down the steps leading to the porch. Her car was right there, but it didn’t matter because she’d lost the keys. Hunching her shoulders to make herself a smaller target, she ran as fast as she could in the platform sandals, putting distance between herself and the house.
“Get back here,” the girl yelled.
Not on your life. Gabby ducked behind a clump of some kind of mountain prickly bush and stared at the house. The figure in white stomped back and forth on the porch with the rifle in her hands, treating the place as though it was her property and she was sworn to protect it. What the hell was going on here?
Gabby decided not to stick around and find out. The crazy girl in the nightgown might decide to get dressed and come after her. The best move would be to run through the drizzle toward the neighbor’s lights in the hope of finding reasonable people.
She waited until Crazy Girl went into the house and then made a dash for the road. Leaping across the two narrow lanes, she came to the barbed wire fence on the opposite side. Until now, she hadn’t noticed cows or any other wildlife, but it was a good bet that the barbed wire had been erected to keep something penned in. Growing up in Brooklyn, Gabby had zero experience with cattle, but she knew they weren’t violent. Cows ate grass, not people.
Carefully, she poked one bare leg between the strands of barbed wires. She lowered her shoulders to squeeze through, and she almost made it. The back of her hoodie snagged. She pulled. The fabric stretched but didn’t release. After another pull, she was hooked in two other places. The sweatshirt had to come off. She unzipped the front and wriggled her arms free. Balancing on one foot, she climbed through.
The lights from the neighbor’s house were still a long way from where she was standing, and she was freezing cold. The dribbles of rain were already soaking through her long-sleeved cotton T-shirt, which was one of her favorite items of clothing. Her best friend, Hannah, had painted a romantic sketch of the Eiffel Tower on the front.
Gabby needed the hoodie for warmth. She peered at Great-Aunt Michelle’s house and saw no sign of Crazy Girl. It shouldn’t take more than a couple of seconds to untangle the sweatshirt. She gently maneuvered the fabric, detaching it from one of the barbs, then another. She almost had it free when she snagged the sleeve of her T-shirt. Damn, she didn’t want to ruin this shirt that Hannah had worked so hard to make. Quickly, she peeled it off over her head.
Unsnagging the material took a careful touch, but Gabby was accustomed to working with fabric. She manipulated the threads and gently pulled. Both shirts were free and still no Crazy Girl. But someone was approaching. Gabby could hear them getting closer. She turned to face the new threat, clutching her hoodie and her shirt to her breasts to cover her leopard-patterned bra.
A cowboy on a dark horse rode toward her. He wasn’t like anything she’d ever seen before. Frankly, she would have been less startled by a zombie attack.
Lightning flashed behind him, outlining his broad shoulders and long legs. When she glimpsed a chiseled profile under the brim of his hat, her heart did a weird little tango. He looked angry. But he was also gorgeous.
Chapter Two
Zach Sheffield dismounted and approached the woman who stood at the edge of his property wearing a pair of shorts, a leopard bra and nothing else. He’d never seen anything like her before. She stared with eyes as big as saucers. Her arms and legs gleamed white against the darkness. She was shivering and talking so fast that he couldn’t separate her words into anything coherent.
Whatever she was babbling about didn’t matter. All he wanted to do was get her dried off and warmed up so she could go back to Michelle’s place where she belonged. Without speaking, he took off his denim jacket and draped it over her shoulders.
“Thank you,” she said, “thank you, thank you.”
The rain dripped down her forehead, streaks of eye makeup marked her cheeks and her lips quivered. She looked as pathetic as a wet cat, but he didn’t waste any sympathy on her. There was a spark of energy in those dark brown eyes that told him she wasn’t a helpless damsel in distress.
“You can come with me,” he said.
“Where are we going?”
“My place. After you get dried off, I’ll take you back to your home.”
“Home? I really hope you aren’t talking about Rousseau’s Roost. I can’t go there.” She jabbed an accusing finger at the house across the road. “There’s a crazy girl in there. She shot at me.”
He’d heard the gunfire, but that wasn’t why he’d responded. “The crazy girl is Charlotte Potter. She called my house to tell me what happened. After you ran off, she checked your ID and decided you weren’t lying about being Michelle’s niece.”
“Why would anybody lie about being me?”
He shrugged.
She clasped his hand in an attempted handshake. Her fingers were like ice. “I’m Gabriella Rousseau. Everybody calls me Gabby.”
The name suited her. “Zach Sheffield,” he said.
“I wish we were meeting in different circumstances. I mean, here we are in the middle of the night. In the middle of nowhere.” She winced. “Sorry, I’m not putting down this, um, countryside. I’m sure that in daylight, it’s lovely, and—”
He tapped the stirrup. “Put your foot in here, and I’ll hoist you up.”
“Oh, no, that’s not going to happen.” She took a backward step. “I don’t know how to ride.”
He wasn’t asking her to perform in a barrel race. “You don’t have to do anything. Just sit on the horse.”
“Why are you people trying to kill me?” She stormed around in a tight little circle. “First, the crazy girl shoots at me. Then, you want me to deal with a gigantic animal. That thing must weigh two tons.”
“About eleven hundred pounds,” he said.
“What if it steps on me? It’s not safe.”
Zach had neither the time nor the inclination to stand in the rain, listening to a tirade from a woman who didn’t have the sense to realize that he was helping her. He stuck his foot into the stirrup and swung back into the saddle. “Suit yourself.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You can walk. It’s about a mile to the house. The ground in this field is kind of uneven, so watch your step. And mind the rattlesnakes.”
“Snakes?” She staggered toward him with both arms raised. “I think I’ll take that ride, after all.”
He reached down, wrapped his arm around her and yanked her off her feet. It took all his strength to lift her onto the horse, especially when her long legs got tangled the wrong way around. When his horse snorted, she yelped and flailed as though she was atop a bucking bronco. He wrestled her around until she was settled into the saddle in front of him.
Exhaling a sigh, she leaned against him. The back of his jacket was wet against his flannel shirt, but when he slipped his arm around her slender body, he liked the way they fit together. It had been a while since he’d been this close to a woman. As his hand molded against her bare midriff, her stomach muscles quivered. A vision of her leopard-patterned bra popped into his head as he urged his horse into a walk toward his ranch house.
“Slow down,” she said.
“I don’t think that’s possible.”
“We’re really high up. If I fall from here, I could break an ankle.”
“It’s hard to believe you’ve never been on a horse before.”
“I’m from Brooklyn,” she said as though that statement should clarify everything. “I’m not into animals.”
“Except for leopards,” he murmured.
“I guess I owe you an explanation for why I was half-naked when you found me. It’s simple, okay? My clothes got caught on your nasty fence and I didn’t want to rip them to shreds.”
Her body jostled against him. In spite of the cold rain, a pleasant feeling of warmth radiated from his chest to the rest of his body. When he leaned forward in the saddle, he could smell the strawberry scent of her shampoo.
“I bet you’ve got other questions for me,” she said.
“No, ma’am.”
“Ma’am?” She wriggled around in front of him. “Did you just ma’am me?”
“Seems appropriate for a lady such as yourself who’s never rode a horse.”
“And that makes you wonder, doesn’t it? What’s a city girl like me doing here?”
Zach already knew the short answer. Gabby was here to claim her inheritance—Rousseau’s Roost. That information was enough for him. He wasn’t the kind of person who needed to rake through other people’s business. “I’m sure you’ve got your reasons.”
“Colorado isn’t where I’d choose to live,” she said. “I’m into fashion and I specialize in original designs, not haute couture gowns but upscale ready-to-wear. You know what I mean?”
“Yep.” Zach didn’t have a clue and couldn’t care less.
“Anyway,” she continued, “my work means I need to be in New York or L.A. or some other major fashion mecca. When the lawyer called and told me about Rousseau’s Roost, he said it was near Aspen. Is that true?”
“Yep.”
“Aspen means glitz and glamor. I thought that movie stars and European royalty would be my next-door neighbors. Do you know a lot of famous people?”
“Nope.”
They were coming closer to his long, low, ranch house. On the porch, he saw his housekeeper with a striped Indian blanket in her hands. As soon as they got there, he’d turn Gabby over to the care of Rhoda Phillips, who would give her something warm to drink and something dry to wear. That was the neighborly thing to do. Though he enjoyed the way this woman from Brooklyn felt in his arms, they had nothing in common. He wasn’t looking to start up any kind of friendship.
“Did you know my great-aunt?” she asked.
“Yep.”
She waited for five seconds, and then twisted her neck around. “What can you tell me about her?”
“I liked her.”
Michelle Rousseau was a good neighbor, sociable when she needed to be and not a pest. She’d traveled a lot and was well-read. Zach had spent many pleasant evenings drinking coffee on her front porch and listening to her stories about faraway places and unusual ideas. He’d been glad when Charlotte moved into the Roost a few years ago to help out with the chores when the work got to be too much for Michelle to handle on her own.
“What else?” Gabby asked. “Did she ever talk about family? Did she mention me?”
“Yep.”
He was saved from further conversation when they reached the covered porch where Rhoda stood with her blanket. He swung his leg over the rump of his horse and dismounted. Then he held his arms up to help her.
After the clumsy way she’d gotten on the horse, he expected a struggle, but she surprised him by getting both legs on the same side of the saddle. As she slipped down into his arms, her long, lean body slid against his, descending slowly, until her feet touched the ground. The warm sensations he’d been feeling translated into a sensual heat that didn’t bode well for keeping things neighborly and distant.
“Do you want your jacket?” she asked.
The last thing he needed right now was another view of her leopard brassiere. “Keep it.”
He turned Gabby by the shoulders and pointed her toward the porch. “This is Rhoda Phillips. She’ll look after you.”
Zach took the reins of his horse and walked toward the barn. With each step, he told himself not to get attached to Gabby Rousseau. This woman was nothing but trouble.
* * *
ON THE PORCH, Gabby gratefully accepted the warm, dry blanket that was being held toward her by a round-faced little woman with her gray hair sticking out from her head like a cap of feathers. On short legs, she bustled like a pigeon, and her long plaid bathrobe was belted beneath her full breasts.
“Come inside,” Rhoda said. “We’ll have some nice, hot, chamomile tea.”
“That sounds great.” She glanced toward Zach as he and his horse disappeared around the end of the house. “I think I might have made him angry.”
“Don’t worry about Zach. He’s not a big talker.”
“I noticed,” Gabby said.
“But he’s a good man.” Rhoda ushered her through the door into the log house. “When I first came to work for him, I had two teenage boys and no skills. Zach gave me a chance. He was patient and kind. I like to think that he trained me just like he trains his horses.”
Gabby wasn’t sure if horse whisperer methods were suitable for humans. “Trained you to do what?”
“I basically run the place.” She proudly stuck out her breasts. “I do the bookkeeping, the ordering and the billing. Zach isn’t much good with computers, so I handle all the online parts of the business so he can concentrate on his work.”
“This is a ranch, right? Do you have cows?”
“What? We’re not a cattle ranch. Zach breeds, raises and trains horses. My goodness, Gabby, you don’t know a thing about us, do you?”
“I guess not.”
“Ten years ago, Zach was a star on the rodeo circuit. He got injured, and then started up this horse ranch. He’s one of the most sought-after trainers in the West.”
Though Gabby wasn’t sure what a horse trainer did or what happened on the rodeo circuit, she was suitably impressed. “So, he was a star, huh?”
“But don’t mention it. He doesn’t like to talk about the old days.”
In the pine-paneled living room, Rhoda led her toward the fireplace and indicated that she should sit in a padded rocking chair in front of the brick hearth. The heat from the flickering orange flames in the fireplace was heavenly.
“Take off those silly shoes,” Rhoda said, “and warm up your toes. I’ll fetch the tea.”
Gabby hadn’t realized how chilled she was until she began to thaw. Bit by bit, her body relaxed. She unclenched her fists. The tension eased from the muscles in her shoulders. Her long road trip was over. She’d reached her destination, and the overall picture wasn’t too bad. Though her first moments at Roost hadn’t gone well, Crazy Girl seemed to have a reason for her gun-toting behavior. At least, Zach accepted Charlotte as a rational human being.
Could she believe his opinion? Her first impression of his gorgeousness remained intact. If all she’d wanted was to sit and stare at him, she would have been perfectly content, but she wasn’t sure that she could trust the former rodeo star. Rhoda was a lot more forthcoming.
The housekeeper bustled into the room carrying a tray, which she placed on a coffee table beside Gabby’s rocker.
“Herbal tea,” she said. “And oatmeal cookies. I did some baking this afternoon when it started clouding over. I just love the way it makes the house smell.”
The last time Gabby ate was hours ago—a greasy taco and a milk shake. She pounced on the cookies, which tasted healthy in comparison to her diet for the past several days on the road. The lightly sweetened chamomile tea soothed her throat.
“Oh, Rhoda.” She licked her lips. “This is fantastic. Can I live with you?”
“Don’t be silly, dear. You’ve got a wonderful adventure waiting.” Rhoda sat in the overstuffed chair beside her and tucked her short legs underneath her. “I’m guessing the Roost is going to be a different life than you’re used to.”
“I don’t fit in,” Gabby said. “Is it that obvious?”
“The leopard bra and fancy sandals are kind of a clue.” Rhoda grinned. “Your great-aunt told me that you’d spent your whole life in the city. She said she didn’t know you very well, but she thought you had inherited some of her artistic talent.”
“Me?” Gabby took another bite of oatmeal cookie. “I wonder why she said that.”
“You’re a designer, aren’t you? That’s art.”
Claiming to be an artist seemed pretentious when her most lucrative source of income was alterations like taking up hems and letting out waists. Still, she was flattered. “I guess my work could be called creative.”
“Wait until you see the inside of the Roost. There’s a studio that you could change into a workroom for sewing and an office and a tremendous view.”
“And Charlotte Potter,” Gabby said. “What’s her story?”
“Her parents—a couple of mean, nasty people—threw her out, and Michelle offered her a place to live in exchange for doing some light chores. Charlotte was devoted to your great-aunt.”
Which didn’t necessarily mean that she wasn’t loony tunes. “She seemed to think that somebody was threatening her, and that they sent me to do their dirty work.”
“Treasure hunters.”
Gabby almost choked on her cookie. “Say what?”
“It’s your family history. Haven’t you ever heard of the Frenchman’s Treasure?”
Holding the mug of tea to her lips, she leaned forward. “Tell me about it.”
“A long time ago,” Rhoda said, “way back in the 1870s, your ancestor moved to Colorado to prospect for gold. His name was Louis Rousseau. He always wore a gold hoop earring like a pirate, and he was supposed to be a dashing, handsome man.”
Gabby had a vague recollection of a formal photograph in a family album. “He had a wife and two children. And they came from Wisconsin. Was he a trapper?”
“A trapper or a trader. Nobody knows for sure, but he had enough money to buy a huge parcel of land, build the first structure that was called Rousseau’s Roost and start a cattle ranch.”
If Gabby had known that her ancestor had a treasure, she would have taken more interest in her heritage. It seemed unimportant after her parents were killed in a car accident when she was thirteen. Family, what family? She and her brother were left to be raised by the elderly great-aunt who was Michelle’s sister. Aunt Rene had done her best, even though she was in her eighties when she got stuck with a couple of angry teenagers. She was the one who taught Gabby to sew. She’d passed away when Gabby was twenty-one.
“Louis’s wife,” said Rhoda, “might have been a Sioux Indian, but nobody knew for sure.”
“I might be part Native American?”
“A very small part.”
“Still,” Gabby said, “that’s cool. At Thanksgiving in elementary school, the kids who had a Native American background always got to play special parts.”
“Back in the 1800s, it wasn’t considered cool.”
“Tell me about the treasure.”
“As it turned out, Louis’s wife was very good at raising cattle and children. She had five more while her handsome husband was off on prospecting trips, combing the hills for gold or silver. Though he never filed a claim, he always had cash, which led people to believe that he had a secret stash. The legend grew. People followed him on his trips, but no one learned the secret of the Frenchman’s Treasure.”
Gabby was captivated by the story of her long-ago past. One of the Rousseau children must have moved back East and established themselves in Brooklyn. But which one? Did she have other relations? Aunt Rene had never mentioned anyone other than Michelle. “How does all this relate to Charlotte?”
“Supposedly, the key to finding the treasure is hidden in the house. And Charlotte thinks it’s her duty to protect it.”
While Gabby mulled over the idea of a treasure map tucked away behind a brick in the old house, she heard Zach come into the room. In the light from the fireplace, he was even more handsome. His deep-set eyes were a piercing blue. His shaggy brown hair curled over the collar of his plaid shirt. When she looked at him, she couldn’t help grinning.
He didn’t smile back.
“Now you’ve heard the legend,” he said. “I suggest you forget all about it.”
Chapter Three
The last thing Zach needed was Rhoda filling Gabby’s head with wild stories about the Frenchman’s Treasure. This strange woman from Brooklyn might start tearing down the Roost in the hope of getting rich quick. He took a sip from his steaming mug of herbal tea and gazed into the fire on the hearth, trying his best not to notice how Gabby was clutching the striped blanket over her half-naked body. Didn’t this woman ever wear clothes?
“Why should I forget the treasure?” she asked.
Rhoda answered for him. “Zach thinks that if the treasure or a treasure map ever existed, they would have been found by now. And I guess that makes sense. People have been searching for over a hundred and fifty years.”
“When it comes to secrets,” Gabby said, “time doesn’t matter.”
What the hell was she talking about? He knew that asking for an explanation would open a can of worms, but he couldn’t let her statement stand unchallenged. “Tell me more.”
“Think about the archaeologists in Egypt. They’re still finding artifacts in the sand, and those things have been hidden for thousands of years.”
He hadn’t expected her to talk about archaeology.
“I went to a King Tut exhibit in Manhattan,” she said. When she gestured, her blanket slipped, giving him another glimpse of the leopard bra. “You wouldn’t believe all the gold. And those thousands of years didn’t matter. Finding things is just a matter of knowing where to look.”
“This is different,” he said.
“Think about the last time you lost something and couldn’t find it,” she said. “You search and you search and you just can’t locate it. A couple of days later, you remember that you were in the kitchen when you lost it. You go to the drawer by the door and...ta da! There it is.”
Her logic made a certain amount of sense, but Zach wasn’t going to concede. He was right about the treasure map. “Michelle used to travel a lot. She’d leave the house vacant for days at a time. We tried to keep an eye on things, but anybody who wanted to search could have gotten in.”
“Zach’s right,” Rhoda said. “Treasure hunters have had plenty of chances to poke around at the Roost.”
“Why is Charlotte so worried about it?” Gabby asked.
Rhoda made a tsk-tsk sound. “On the day of Michelle’s memorial service, her house was broken into and some of her things were tossed around. They took the typical stuff like computers, a television and electronics. Sheriff Burton thought it was just a burglary.”
“But he investigated,” Gabby said. “At least, I hope he investigated. That’s his job.”
“The sheriff did all he could.” He didn’t appreciate her implication that law enforcement in this area was less stringent than it would be in a city.
“Did he find fingerprints?”
“The thieves wore gloves,” he said. “Even out here in the middle of nowhere, criminals know how to avoid being caught.”
He’d been with the sheriff when his deputies studied the crime scene. They’d all come to the same conclusion. Michelle was a wealthy woman, and the thieves had hoped to find something of value while everyone was out of the house at the memorial service. The only person who thought of the Frenchman’s Treasure was Charlotte.
“Maybe Michelle’s death triggered some kind of clue,” Gabby said. “Was there anything in her will?”
“That’s a thought,” Rhoda said. “We should check with the lawyer.”
Zach shot her a glare. He couldn’t believe Rhoda was considering Gabby’s nonsense. “Michelle’s will isn’t public information. The thieves wouldn’t know about it.”
Gabby wasn’t deterred. “Bad guys could have broken into the lawyer’s office and—”
“Forget about the treasure.” He paused to sip his tea. “If I believed there was a real danger from treasure hunters, I wouldn’t leave Charlotte alone in the house.”
“Is that so?” Gabby arched an eyebrow. In spite of being a drenched mess with her hair hanging in limp strands and makeup smearing her cheeks, she managed to look sophisticated. “And I suppose you’re never wrong.”
“Seldom,” he said.
For a long moment, she held his gaze. He recognized the defiance in her dark brown eyes. She wasn’t the sort of woman who was going to take orders and back down. Everything he said, he would have to prove. For the first time, he saw the family resemblance. Gabby was a lot like her great-aunt.
Rhoda stood. “Why don’t you come with me, Gabby? I’ll get you some dry clothes. Then Zach can take you back to the Roost.”
Without looking away from him, she said, “Not on horseback.”
“He’ll take the truck,” Rhoda promised.
Zach watched as the two women went down the hall toward the bedrooms. Gabby was going to be a handful, no doubt about it. He’d been prepared not to like her. During those last difficult months when Michelle’s health was failing, Gabby couldn’t be bothered to visit. And yet, when she heard of her inheritance, she hightailed it across the country to stake her claim.
Before he met her, he was ready to dismiss her as an ungrateful, greedy relation who only wanted to take advantage of her great-aunt’s inheritance. But now, he wasn’t so sure. She had an innocence that seemed real. She wasn’t a great beauty but she carried herself with confidence, even while wearing those sandals.
Dealing with her was going to be complicated. He looked down into his mug of herbal tea and wished it was whiskey. One day at a time, he had to take Gabby one day at a time.
* * *
GABBY FELT ALMOST human after washing her face, dragging a comb through her chin-length hair and changing into dry clothes. On the bottom, she wore a pair of Rhoda’s faded red sweatpants that were Capri-length on her long legs. The zip-up sweatshirt fit just fine on top. Shoes were a problem. Gabby’s feet were at least two sizes larger than Rhoda’s and much too small to fit into a pair of sneakers belonging to Zach. For now, her sandals would have to do.
When she climbed into the passenger seat of Zach’s big, old truck, she was hit by the smell of dirt and wet dog. “Do you have a dog?”
“Three.”
“I’m guessing they aren’t pocket poodles that fit nicely in a Gucci bag.”
“Two hounds for hunting and a border collie named Daphne.” He looked over his shoulder. “I’m surprised Daphne didn’t run up to meet you when you crossed onto my property.”
“Is she a guard dog?”
“She’s a border collie,” he said in a tone that you’d use with a slow learner. “The breed is known for their intelligence.”
“So Daphne probably took one look at me and decided I wasn’t a threat.”
“Yep.”
When he cranked the engine, the radio came on. Of course, it was tuned to a country and western station. She had dozens of more questions, but talking to Zach had thus far proved futile. The man seemed determined to either ignore her or snap her head off every time she opened her mouth. Still, it didn’t hurt to keep asking. “How old is Charlotte?”
“Don’t know,” he said.
“Could we call a truce? I’ve had enough of the strong, silent treatment.”
He shrugged.
“I know you’re lying about not knowing anything about Charlotte,” she said.
“How do you know?”
“Because you care about what happens to the kid. When you said that you’d protect her from treasure hunters, your voice was forceful.” She’d liked his protective, masculine tone. “And your jaw was as hard as steel. You’re not going to let anything bad happen to her.”
“Damn right, I won’t.”
“So, how old is she?”
“Eighteen or nineteen. She stopped going to high school last year. I’m not sure if she graduated.”
The road between the two houses was filled with ruts. The rain had stopped but the tires splashed through puddles as they drove. “Has Charlotte talked to you about her future plans?”
“Nope.”
“Rhoda said her parents were out of the picture. I’m guessing the girl doesn’t have a place to live. Do you think she’d be willing to stay with me for a while?”
“Do you want her to stay?”
“Of course, I do.” Gabby hadn’t expected to find anyone at the Roost, but she was glad to have bumped into a possible cohort, even Crazy Girl. “For one thing, I need all the help I can get.”
“That’s for damn sure,” he muttered.
“For another, I don’t want to kick Charlotte out before she’s ready to go. I appreciate what she did for Michelle.” If Gabby had been closer to her great-aunt, she might have known when her health was failing. “I nursed my other great-aunt Rene in the last years of her life, and I know that caring for the elderly isn’t easy, even when they’re cool like Michelle. I wish I’d been here.”
The first time she heard of Michelle’s death was a phone call from her lawyer, Jason Fox. He’d faxed a copy of the will and Michelle’s last wishes to be cremated and have her ashes spread. Gabby really hadn’t known her great-aunt well enough to grieve, but she’d felt empty, like a part of her was gone. It hadn’t seemed like there was anything left for her to do.
Zach cleared his throat. “Rhoda asked Charlotte if she wanted to stay with us, but she refused.”
“Because of the treasure hunters.”
“She and Michelle were real close,” he said. “It’s going to be hard for her to let go.”
Empathy and understanding from Zach? That was a surprise. “Does Charlotte have other friends? Somebody her own age?”
“She likes working with the horses.”
“Like you.”
She knew almost nothing about him but suspected there were interesting stories about how the former rodeo star became the owner of a successful horse ranch. Now wasn’t the time to push for details, but she was curious.
When they pulled up in front of the house, she saw that Charlotte had been busy in her absence. She’d moved the suitcases and boxes from the back of Gabby’s car to the front porch of the house, and she’d gotten dressed. In her jeans and puffy vest with her long hair tied back and a navy blue Denver Broncos baseball cap on her head, she looked like a teenager—a teenage boy. When it came to clothing, Charlotte was definitely the “before” version—sorely in need of a makeover.
She tromped through the mud to Gabby’s side of the truck and yanked the door open. “I’m sorry.”
Gabby noticed the red splotch on the side of her face where she’d hit her with the pepper spray. “I’m sorry, too.”
When she climbed down from the cab of the truck, Gabby couldn’t help but notice Charlotte’s discomfort. The thin girl shifted her weight back and forth. Her eyes were downcast. Her arms folded around her middle, and her shoulders hunched as though she was expecting to be beaten. This behavior wasn’t the way to make friends. Gabby’s second lesson—after she showed Charlotte the wonders of moisturizing—would be on how to meet people without curling into a ball of nervousness.
“Come here.” Gabby pulled her close and gave her a hug. “I truly, deeply appreciate everything you did for my great-aunt.”
“You got it backward,” Charlotte said. “Michelle took me in and gave me a place to live.”
“And you cared for her. All I know from the lawyer was that she died from heart failure. Was she in the hospital?”
“Only once.”
Charlotte tried to pull away, but Gabby held her. “Can you tell me about it? What did the doctors say?”
“They put in a stent.” Her voice was a little shaky. “They found other medical problems. With her lungs and her liver. The doctors said she didn’t have long to live. They wanted her to stay at the hospital and rest, but...” Her voice trailed off into silence.
“I didn’t know my aunt well,” Gabby said, “but I know she made her own choices and lived her life the way she wanted. I expect she chose the way she wanted to die.”
“At home.” A sob trembled through Charlotte’s narrow shoulders. “As soon as she could walk, she got out of that hospital bed and hired a nurse to come back to the Roost with us and take care of her medication.”
“You did everything you could to help.”
“It wasn’t enough.”
Charlotte collapsed against her. Though her body was wrenched with powerful emotion, she didn’t make a sound. Her silent tears touched Gabby’s heart. This poor girl had no support system whatsoever. There had been times in Gabby’s life when she’d felt alone and bereft of family, but her experience was nothing compared to Charlotte’s abject loneliness.
Gently, Gabby stroked her back. The girl was so thin that her ribs stuck out. She felt as delicate as a baby bird. Looking past Charlotte’s shoulder, Gabby saw Zach watching them from the porch. His expression was oddly gentle, and he almost seemed to be smiling.
“It’s okay,” Gabby murmured. “We’re going to take care of each other. Do you think you can stay here with me?”
“Yes,” Charlotte said quickly. She broke away from the hug, sniffled and looked Gabby in the eye. “I’m really glad I didn’t shoot you.”
It went without saying that Gabby was also happy about that outcome. “We need to talk about that gun.”
With her sleeve, Charlotte wiped the moisture from her cheeks in a gesture that couldn’t have been less feminine. “I need the rifle. There are these guys who are trying to break into the house. Treasure hunters.”
“But I’m here now,” Gabby said. “Nobody will try to break in with both of us here.”
“What if they do?”
“We call the police.”
“It’ll take them at least a half hour to get here.”
She hadn’t thought of the timing. Living at the end of a rutted road without street signs was different than being in Brooklyn. “I don’t like guns.”
“Because you don’t know how to use them,” Zach said. “If you’re going to live here, you need to learn how to defend yourself and your property.”
“Zach can show you,” Charlotte said. “He’s a really good teacher. Maybe tomorrow you can have a lesson.”
“Great,” she muttered. “Until then, can we at least put the gun away somewhere? Leaving it on the stair landing seems dangerous.”
“Yes, it does.” Zach gave Charlotte a puzzled look. “Have you got an explanation?”
“I couldn’t sleep, and I was going upstairs and then back downstairs. If I was all the way down in the kitchen, my rifle wasn’t going to do me much good if it was up in my bedroom closet. So I left it in the middle.”
“You know better,” he said. “You don’t leave a loaded weapon out where anybody could pick it up and use it.”
She scowled. “I know.”
“Gabby could have stumbled over the rifle and caused an accident.”
“I get it.” Charlotte rolled her eyes. “It’s lucky that both Gabby and me are going to be staying here. If you put the two of us together, you have one smart person.”
Before Gabby could object to being labeled as Tweedle-Dee to Charlotte’s Tweedle-Dum, she heard a confirming woof. On the porch, sitting beside her pile of belongings, was a black-and-white dog with pointed ears. One eye was blue and the other brown. The dog seemed to be grinning at them. “Daphne?”
“What’s she doing here?” Zach asked.
Charlotte went to the dog and scratched behind her ears. “Right after Gabby took off, Daphne showed up and started following me. She hasn’t let me out of her sight. It feels like she’s herding me.”
“Keeping you safe.” Zach looked over his shoulder, scanning the darkness that surrounded the house. “Daphne senses things we don’t see.”
A psychic collie? Gabby would have laughed if she hadn’t felt a prickling on the back of her neck. She didn’t want to think about the coyotes and other possible dangers that Daphne might be seeing with her two-colored eyes.
* * *
ABOUT A MILE from the front porch of the Roost, a man in black crouched beside a fence post and peered through the night vision scope mounted on his rifle. He wanted a better look at the new girl. In spite of the three times magnification, he couldn’t make out details at this distance. She was taller than average and kind of clumsy in the way she walked. And she was a hugger. When she’d wrapped her arms around Charlotte, a flicker of envy had gone through him. He’d been keeping an eye on sweet little Charlotte for the past month and had developed an interest in her, even though the girl was as plain as a female sage grouse.
Having another person at the Roost would make his search more complicated, and time was running out. He needed a new tactic, needed to be smarter. The more he thought about it, the more he suspected that Michelle had hidden what he was looking for. At this point, he didn’t care as much about the money as he did about the potential prison time. He wouldn’t let himself be locked away. Sweat trickled between his shoulder blades. His knit cap was itchy on his ears. He wasn’t going to let anyone take away the expensive goodies he’d been buying for himself. He’d taken the risk and deserved those things.
Had that old bitch Michelle told Charlotte where she’d hidden her secrets? Had she left instructions for the new girl?
He shifted his scope and focused on Zach Sheffield. If the neighbor decided to get involved with these women, it was going to be trouble. Zach liked to pretend that he was upright and honest—a rodeo hero and a role model. But there was a time, not so very long ago, when he’d been desperate and angry, prone to lashing out first and asking questions later.
As the man in black watched, his finger twitched on the trigger. Life would be easier if he eliminated these obstacles. Pop, pop, pop. Three shots. Three dead bodies. Sheriff Burton would never figure out who did it.
Chapter Four
The next morning when Gabby awoke, sunshine was pouring through the two bedroom windows, assaulting her with blinding force. With a groan, she curled into a fetal position and covered her face with one of the down pillows on her queen-size bed. What was the deal with the light in Colorado? Either it was pitch-dark or glaring like a laser.
“Nature,” she grumbled into her pillow.
These annoying variances in the weather were natural phenomena—something you had to live with when you were in the mountains. In the city, the temperature wasn’t consistent, but you didn’t have to deal with the ups and downs. Life could be arranged to minimize your time outdoors. You could stay inside for days and survive by ordering pizza and Chinese, two options that probably weren’t available at the Roost. No Chinese? It took a moment for that loss to sink into her early morning consciousness. No crispy egg rolls. No General Tso’s chicken.
Another groan harmonized with a growl from her stomach. Eating nothing but her own cooking was a miserable thought. Could she live with that? Did she want to? Gabby needed to make a decision about whether she wanted to stay in Colorado or go back to the place she still considered home.
Peeling back the corner of the pillow, she checked her wristwatch. Already after nine o’clock? No, wait, her watch was still set on Eastern Time. In Brooklyn, it was nine and the corner bakery would already be running low on her favorite almond muffins and the kids would be dashing down the sidewalks to school and the commuters would be waiting to catch the D train.
Here, in the middle of nowhere, the time was fifteen minutes past seven, and it was unbelievably quiet. Nobody was rushing anywhere. Cell phones weren’t ringing. The only tweeting came from the birds outside the window.
She’d heard somewhere that country people were early risers but hoped that Charlotte didn’t follow that code. They hadn’t gotten to bed until nearly midnight after dragging her suitcases and boxes into this upstairs bedroom at the top of the stairs. Charlotte had called this one of the guest rooms, but the space was large enough for a master suite. In addition to the queen-size brass bed, there was a dresser and a standing wardrobe, both of which were painted a deep coral and decorated with faux antiquing. The hand-stitched quilt on the bed used some of the coral mixed with greens and yellows in a zigzag pattern. The walls were a clean, crisp white with a stucco finish. It was a pleasant room, homey but not cluttered.
Opposite her bed, above the dresser was a large canvas that she suspected had been done by her great-aunt. The painting showed a bedroom where a bare-legged girl with her hair falling forward to cover her face sat reading a book. She was reflected in a standing mirror that made her smaller and that mirror was reflected in another and another until the girl vanished.
The style was fascinating, realistic but also surreal. Gabby knew quite a bit about fabric and textile, but she wasn’t an art expert. Her great-aunt’s work made her think of what might happen if Norman Rockwell hooked up with Salvador Dali. The subject matter of this picture was more interesting to her. It could be an allegory of going deeper and deeper inside yourself until you completely disappear. Or maybe the other way around, starting from nothing and getting bigger and bigger. Either way, the painting gave a sense of secrecy as though there was more than met the eye.
In the somewhat sketchy history of the Rousseau family, Great-Aunt Michelle was a woman of mystery. There must have been an important reason why she left Brooklyn and moved West, but Gabby didn’t know what it was. When she had asked her other great-aunt—Michelle’s sister—the response was always evasive. If she stayed at the Roost, Gabby wanted to uncover those family secrets. If she stayed...
She tossed the quilt aside, got out of bed and went to the window that looked down on the bumpy driveway leading to the house. A flash of sunlight glinted off the roof of her little car, and she offered up a quick prayer to the Universe that it would start up with no problem this morning. Last night, there had been a lot of sputtering and clunking, and she really needed to take the car in for servicing.
Beyond the road that bisected Michelle’s property and Zach’s ranch, she saw the evil barbed wire fence that attacked her last night. His cozy house was in the distance, but he was already out and about, riding across the field on a black horse with a coat that glistened as though it had been polished with lacquer.
Though Gabby had never been a big fan of Westerns, she was mesmerized by the vision of a broad-shouldered, long-legged, masculine cowboy in a black hat and denim jacket. Beyond gorgeous, he was iconic and, at the same time, utterly original. He dismounted near the place where she’d gotten tangled up last night and sauntered to the fence with a cool, loose-limbed stride. When he pushed his hat back on his forehead and looked toward the house, she stepped back behind the curtain so he wouldn’t see her staring.
Their meeting last night hadn’t been under the best of circumstances, and he certainly hadn’t done anything since then to make her think he was glad to see her. But she’d sensed chemistry between them. Maybe she and Zach would never have a relationship, but she could easily imagine some kissing in their future. Peeking around the edge of the curtain, she watched him walk back toward his horse. At this distance, she couldn’t really judge the way he looked from behind, but she’d noticed last night and he was fine. She wouldn’t mind sticking around at the Roost long enough to see where things with Zach might go.
There was a tap on her bedroom door. Charlotte poked her head inside. “Glad you’re up. I was thinking about breakfast.”
“Usually I just have coffee.”
She came all the way into the room. “That’s a real pretty nightgown.”
“I love fancy lingerie.” Gabby ran her fingers along the flowing lines of her lavender satin chemise with the ivory yoke. “A woman should feel glamorous at least once a day, even if she’s alone in bed. And nightwear is one of the easiest things to make.”
“You made that?”
“I had some scraps left over from a prom dress I did for one of the girls in the neighborhood. I stitched it together and voila!” She came toward Charlotte whose long hair was fastened in two tight braids that made her look twelve years old. “I could make something for you.”
“It’s not practical. That silky material isn’t warm.”
“Which is why you have a robe.” From the rail at the end of the bed, she picked up a long black satin kimono that she’d embroidered with silver roses and slipped it over her chemise. “I saw your nightgown last night—very Little House on the Prairie. You might like to try something different, just for a change.”
Charlotte couldn’t resist stroking the smooth fabric of the kimono, but her forehead pinched in a scowl. “I’ve got no need to dress up.”
“Fashion isn’t about need. It’s about desire and dreams.” Gabby needed to be careful not to push this odd, shy girl too far. Charlotte needed a friend more than a makeover. “Let’s go downstairs. I think I changed my mind about breakfast.”
She slipped into a pair of sparkly ballet flats that were going to be totally useless at the Roost, except for using as slippers and followed Charlotte out the door. If she decided to stay, a shopping trip for footwear would be absolutely necessary.
* * *
ZACH GLANCED AT Daphne, who was sitting in the passenger seat of his truck. The black-and-white dog raised an eyebrow and shook her head as though she was worried about the current situation. So was he.
Earlier this morning, he’d been riding the fence line along his property to make sure Gabby hadn’t torn the barbed wire apart, and he’d discovered a footprint. The grass beside a fence post was tamped down, and he could see the clear outline of a boot heel. Someone had been standing at this spot—about a mile from the front porch of the Roost—for long enough to make an impression. Though Charlotte’s theory about treasure hunters still seemed as far-fetched as a pirate ship sailing over Mount Sopris, the footprint indicated that someone had been watching the house, spying on them. Combined with the break-in during Michelle’s memorial, Zach had reason to be concerned.
Gabby’s arrival made the situation worse. While Charlotte was a nervous little thing who might get herself into trouble with her misplaced handling of her rifle, Gabby was a loose cannon. The first time he’d seen her, she was wearing a leopard bra and not much else. How the hell could he predict what she’d say or do?
As they approached the house, Daphne’s ears pricked up and she made a grumbling noise deep in her throat.
“You’re right, girl. This could be trouble.”
Though Zach knew he couldn’t really talk to his dogs or his horses, he’d always felt like he could communicate with animals. He respected their intelligence and their instincts, which were a hundred times sharper than his own. When Daphne sensed danger, he paid attention.
Reaching over, he scratched behind her ears. “Don’t worry. We’ll keep an eye on them. Michelle would have wanted it.”
Daphne’s mouth dropped open in what looked like a grin. The dog had liked being around Michelle and spent a lot of time curled up at the base of her easel while she painted. Zach couldn’t help wondering if Daphne understood that Michelle was gone and not coming back. More likely, the dog would always approach the Roost with the expectation of greeting the former owner. And who was Zach to say Daphne’s instincts were wrong? Michelle Rousseau might still be here in spirit.
He parked his truck and went to the front door, which stood wide-open in a blatant invitation to intruders. The smell of smoke hung in the air. He stepped inside. “What’s going on?”
Gabby rushed down the hall from the kitchen. In a pair of tight red jeans and a loose jacket striped with neon colors, she looked like an urban butterfly. “I was baking.”
Clearly, that wasn’t the whole story. “And?”
“Charlotte made breakfast this morning, and it was really good. Scrambled eggs and Canadian bacon. So, I thought I’d help out, and I remembered those yummy cookies Rhoda gave me last night. I was cooking. Everything was going fine. And then this dish towel caught fire.”
“Uh-huh.”
“All under control,” she said with a confident smile.
“Uh-huh.”
Today, she had on makeup—a bit of lining around her dark eyes and pink lipstick that emphasized the fullness of her mouth. With her dark hair framing her face, she was striking, almost beautiful. He had an urge to tell her, to caress the delicate lines of her face and to taste those pretty lips.
“Zach, can I ask you a favor?” Before he could respond, she continued, “I made an appointment to see my great-aunt’s lawyer at two o’clock this afternoon. His office is in Aspen, and I need to take my car in for a checkup. It would help if you came with me, in case I have to leave my car overnight.”
“Sure.” He had already cleared his appointments for today, anticipating problems at the Roost.
“I appreciate it.”
When she reached over and casually patted his arm, a current of electricity shot up to his shoulder and spread across his chest. He enjoyed the effect she had on him but hated feeling out of control. The time had come to get a grip. “There’s something important we need to discuss.”
“Anything, you can talk to me about anything.”
From the top of the staircase, he heard Charlotte’s voice. “Here I come,” she shouted, “ready or not.”
The feminine creature that descended the stairs had Charlotte’s long hair and her nervous blue eyes. Otherwise, she was unrecognizable. The makeup she was wearing didn’t cover the hot red blush on her cheeks. Her legs were encased in fishnet stockings, and she wore a short, tight skirt. Her blouse was long-sleeved, lacy and showed curves he never knew Charlotte had.
At the bottom of the stairs, she spun in a clumsy circle, clearly having trouble maneuvering in her high heels. With a huge smile, she looked up at him. “What do you think?”
“You’re real sparkly.”
“Glitter makeup,” Gabby said.
“Me and Gabby wear the same size. She’s a couple of inches taller, but we’re pretty much the same. I don’t know about these shoes, though. They’re kind of big.”
“Get used to it,” Gabby said. “Those shoes are Louboutins. They’re really expensive, and they’re yours now, Charlotte. The Universe told me they should belong to you.” She nudged Zach’s arm. “Doesn’t she look great?”
“It’s a change.” He didn’t particularly like the transformation, but he was glad to see Charlotte happy. “You look real pretty.”
She actually giggled. Zach was certain that he’d never seen this young woman do anything so girlie, and he was damn sure that this fluffy attitude wasn’t the best for discussing security needs. Still, he had to try. “I need for you both to listen to me.”
“Give me a second.” Charlotte stumbled into the front parlor and sank into a white leather chair. “The shoes aren’t working. Trade with me, Gabby. The ones you’re wearing have straps.”
“If you insist.”
They swapped shoes. When Gabby stood, the extra couple of inches from her expensive heels made her almost as tall as he was. She strutted a few paces and grinned down at her shoes. “They fit me, but they belong to you, Charlotte.”
“Whatever.”
“Ladies,” he said, “we need to talk about security. This house isn’t a fortress, but you need to do what you can to discourage unwanted intruders. You can start by keeping the doors closed and locked.”
“You’re right.” Gabby strode to the door, pulled it shut and flipped the latch. “Better?”
He gave a terse nod. “The same goes for the windows. I want you to check and make sure they’re all locked.”
“I’m pretty sure they are,” Charlotte said as she stomped around in the shoes with straps. “Oh, yeah, these are good.”
Gabby hitched her arm through Charlotte’s and asked, “Want a cookie?”
“Only if I make some lemonade.”
“Not milk?”
“I like to drink something sour when I eat something sweet.”
They were ignoring him. Zach cleared his throat to get their attention. “Ladies, we need to—”
“Come on, Zach. Have a cookie.”
“I don’t want a damn cookie.”
“Well, I do.” Gabby pulled out a long strand of Charlotte’s hair and asked, “Have you ever thought of coloring your hair? Maybe going blond?”
Charlotte giggled again. “I couldn’t.”
Zach was ready to bang their heads together. Last night, Charlotte had been scared and brandishing a rifle. Today, she cheerfully sashayed down the hallway, leaving a faint trail of glitter makeup. She’d been suckered in by Gabby’s bad influence. Even Daphne had turned traitor. The dog trotted along after the two women, wagging her tail.
Earlier, when he’d seen the boot print and realized the danger might be real, his first thought was to take Charlotte and Gabby to his house and leave the Roost for whoever wanted to tear the damn place apart. Unfortunately, he doubted that either of these women would agree to that solution unless they were hog-tied, bound and gagged. He had to come up with something else. And he needed for them to pay attention.
In the kitchen, they were nibbling at the cookies. In the sink were the burned remains of two dish towels. Gabby waved to him. “You’ve got to try these, chocolate chip and yummy.”
Clearly, she was the leader. If he convinced Gabby that there was danger, Charlotte would do whatever she said. Keeping his voice low so he wouldn’t yell, he said, “I want to talk to you. Alone.”
“Something wrong?”
“Now.”
“Sure.” She patted Charlotte on the arm. “Why don’t you make some of that lemonade?”
In her high heels, Gabby strolled past him, went down the hallway, stopped beside the staircase with the shattered gargoyle on the newel post and faced him. “You look mad.”
Initially, he hadn’t intended to tell her about the boot print because he didn’t want to frighten her. He’d changed his mind. A healthy dose of fear might be just what she needed. “I found a footprint down the road along the fence line. It’s evidence that someone was spying on the house last night.”
“Spying?” Her eyes opened wide, and then she looked down as though she was unable to face the truth. Her thick black lashes formed crescents on her smooth cheeks. “Are you sure?”
“Evidence.” He repeated the word. “I saw footprints.”
“Do you think it was a treasure hunter?”
“I don’t know. Last night, there was a watcher. During the memorial service, there was a break-in. It’s enough to make me think that you and Charlotte aren’t safe here.”
When she looked up at him, her dark eyes shone with the most appealing light he’d ever seen. The kick-ass city girl was gone, replaced by a woman who was softer, gentler and a little bit scared. “I shouldn’t have come here.”
“This isn’t your fault.”
“I don’t know how to deal with this kind of threat. I can’t call 911. It doesn’t do much good to run because there’s no place to hide in all this open land. I can’t use a gun. Last night, I was barely able to escape from Charlotte.”
“If you listen to me, I can show you what to do.”
“Remember me? The girl who’s afraid of horses?” Her full lips lifted into a half smile. “I can’t do it. This isn’t my world.”
He should have been glad that she realized she didn’t belong in the mountains. It would save him a truckload of grief if he said goodbye and sent her on her way. But he didn’t want her to leave, not like this. “I didn’t think you were a quitter.”
“I’m not.” She straightened her shoulders. “I drove four long miserable days to get here. You think that was easy?”
“Nope.”
“The smart thing would be to talk to the lawyer, get the estate settled and back to Brooklyn. In the meantime, I could stay at a motel.”
“You could,” he said.
“But I came here to find out more about myself, my family and Michelle. I want to know who she was and why she stayed here. My brother and I are the last of the Rousseaus. How can I turn my back on my heritage?”
“So you’re not quitting.”
She tossed her head and stuck out her chin. Her vulnerability transformed into rock-hard stubbornness. “I didn’t say that.”
“Then you’re staying.”
“I didn’t say that, either.” With her index finger, she jabbed at his chest. “You should stop jumping to conclusions.”
He caught hold of her wrist. “It’s not my fault, either.”
When she tried to yank her hand back, he held on. On her heels, she stumbled toward him. Her face was inches away from his. And then she kissed him.
The brush of her lips against his was so unexpected that he didn’t quite believe it had happened. At the same time, her kiss had a profound effect. It changed everything.
Chapter Five
It had only been a chaste little kiss. Not really a kiss at all; Gabby had only touched his mouth with hers. The last time she’d kissed a guy like that was when she was seven years old and Jimmy Franzini had dared her to do a flip off the monkey bars in the school playground. She did it. Then she kissed him.
When she was seven, she’d felt triumphant. So there, Jimmy Franzini. Right now, as she leaned against the wall in the entryway of the Roost, her heart was dancing a tango, and she couldn’t swallow. Zach Sheffield was most definitely not a seven-year-old boy. He was one of the most virile men she’d ever met, and he wasn’t going to let her skip away into the playground without consequences. Should she apologize? No way, she wasn’t sorry. The best thing was to act like it never happened.
But when she took a step toward the kitchen, he slipped his arm around her waist and pulled her snug against his chest. There was no point in struggling; he was too strong, all muscle. More importantly, she didn’t want to break away. The heat from his body sparked a fire that raced through her blood. Her chin tilted up, and she gazed into his blue eyes. He kissed her hard enough to take her breath away. When his tongue penetrated her mouth, she actually felt a little bit woozy as though she was melting.
He ended the kiss and stepped back. “Are you ready to listen to me now?”
“Uh-huh.”
She looked up at him and blinked. Though she was never at a loss for words, all she could do was stare with a stupefied gaze. A kiss like that deserved a comment. She had to say something. “Zach?”
“What?”
“Next time, take off your hat.”
As she followed him back to the kitchen where Charlotte was peering into the side of the stainless steel toaster, trying to see her reflection, Gabby struggled to make sense of what had just happened. His kiss was incredible. In her experience, which wasn’t all that extensive, she had to rank it in the top ten, maybe the top three or even number one. But did it mean anything? There was physical chemistry between them; she’d felt it from the start. But the differences between them were too vast to calculate.
Even though she’d implied that she wasn’t a quitter and would stay at the Roost, that decision wasn’t firm. It was just as likely that she’d get her car serviced and head back to Brooklyn, where she belonged. How could she stay here with the threat of imminent danger and bad guys watching the house? For the moment, she knew only one thing for sure: Zach was in charge. She was willing to let him take the lead. For now.
“Here’s what we’re going to do,” he said. “We need to go through the whole house to check on overall security. Then we’ll talk about procedures in case of a break-in.”
“Okay,” Charlotte said. “Want some lemonade?”
Something cold to douse the flames raging inside her? “Perfect.”
Gabby chugged half the tall glass of lemonade while Zach went to a door at the rear of the large kitchen. He twisted the key in the lock. “We’ll start here.”
“You’re going to be surprised,” Charlotte said to her. “The house is bigger than it looks in photographs and from the road. The first Roost was built by the Frenchman and his wife in the 1800s.”
Gabby’s common sense had returned enough for her to comment. “But this kitchen looks completely modern.”
“It’s new,” Charlotte said. “The front part of the house was built in the 1950s. Michelle had it renovated a couple of times, including a recent update of the kitchen. It’s basically a two-story with five bedrooms upstairs.”
“Michelle didn’t move out here until the sixties,” Gabby said, recalling a bit of family history. “Who owned the Roost before that?”
“I think the property has always belonged to the Rousseau family, but it was vacant for a long time and fell into disrepair.”
“Why did they move back?”
Zach explained, “After World War II, Aspen began to develop a world-wide reputation as a ski resort, and the property values skyrocketed. The Roost is especially attractive because you’ve got a good well and your family owns the water rights. One of your relatives sensed a good deal and hired a contractor to build the two-story. I think the first plan was to sell, but they moved back in.”
He pushed the door from the kitchen open. “This center area isn’t the oldest part of the house. It was added on when the family got bigger. At one time, this area was a kitchen, living room and bedrooms. Michelle had it gutted, leaving only the essential support beams and outer walls. She turned it into a studio.”
She followed him onto a small landing and down three stairs to Michelle’s art studio—an open space that was nearly as wide as the two-story house it was attached to. If it was possible to fall in love with a room, Gabby was smitten. The ceiling peaked in the center. There were so many skylights and windows that it was unnecessary to turn on the overhead lights. In one corner was a potter’s wheel. One entire wall was waist-high storage cabinets. A double-wide garage door had been installed, probably to allow large projects to be easily moved in and out.
Nearest the house were the remnants of a former kitchen—a fridge, double sink and plenty of counter space. Though the art supplies had been cleaned up and put away, paint spatters outlined the work areas.
Two freestanding gas fireplaces provided heat, but neither was turned on, leaving a chill in the air and a sense of vacancy. Gabby felt a pang of regret that she’d never really known her great-aunt. This had been the place where Michelle did her creative work. Now the easel in the center of the room stood empty.

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