Hidden in a Heartbeat (A Place Called Home, Book 3) Read online

  HIDDEN IN A HEARTBEAT

  A PLACE CALLED HOME

  BOOK THREE

  Patricia McLinn

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  Published by Patricia McLinn

  Copyright 2012 Patricia McLinn

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  License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  A Place Called Home Trilogy

  Can they lift the curse that has haunted the ranch they love?

  Book 1 – Lost and Found Groom

  Book 2 – At the Heart’s Command

  Book 3 – Hidden in a Heartbeat

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  Dear Readers: If you encounter typos or errors in this book, please send them to me at:

  mailto:[email protected]

  Even with many layers of editing, mistakes can slip through, alas. But, together, we can eradicate the nasty nuisances. Thank you! - Patricia McLinn

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  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Epilogue

  Patricia McLinn Books

  More About Patricia McLinn Books

  CHAPTER ONE

  He’d have to pay attention to her now.

  Rebecca Dahlgren smoothed her tailored jacket and skirt, then pushed her hair behind her ears again in a futile attempt to control the wind-teased strands.

  The man she’d tracked to this field eighteen minutes ago finally stopped cutting neat stripes in the long brown grass, exposing rusty Wyoming earth. He’d seen her when she arrived, giving her a single, brief survey, from head to toe. He’d shown no inclination to pause his work, but now there did not appear to be a single blade left standing.

  Now she’d have her chance.

  He descended from the machine, moving with a smooth, confident stride to where the tractor connected to the even bigger machine that had rolled the grass – hay, she supposed – and left behind it in big rounds.

  As she approached, walking on the balls of her feet so the heels of her pumps didn’t sink into the clinging dirt, she saw him shifting levers, the movement emphasizing the muscles across his shoulders and back that the thin material of his faded plaid shirt did little to hide. Slightly bent over his task, the worn material of his equally faded jeans stretched taut over hard, rounded –

  “Stand back,” he barked.

  She halted so abruptly that both heels sank into the dirt.

  He flipped another lever and the hay rolled out the back of the second machine, raising a cloud of dust. He locked up more levers then strode toward the front of the tractor, where she stood. His jeans were worn nearly white, making the zipper area and what was under it stand out in stark contrast. Her throat was suddenly desperately dry. Must be the wind, she decided. She licked her lips.

  She shifted her weight, pulling one heel free from the clinging dirt, only to sink the other one deeper.

  “Is it okay now?”

  From his movement, she thought he flicked her a look, but she couldn’t see his eyes under the brown cowboy hat. What she could see were a narrow nose that might have been perfect before it lost an encounter with a fist or some other immovable object and a jaw too square for strict good looks. A thin scar started just below the left corner of his mouth and hooked under his jaw like a misplaced dimple. Stubble all around it made it stand out in stark relief.

  “Yeah.” There was something warm and a little rough in that syllable – or in her imagination.

  “Thank you. I’m – ”

  He kept walking, even with her, then past her, toward the gate and the lane where her car stood. She had to pry her heels loose, turn and follow. Waiting to talk to him, she’d been standing heel-deep in dirt, while the wind pelted the area beneath her skirt’s dignified below-the-knee hem with grit until she feared her shins would resemble the surface of a golf ball.

  The sensation was not conducive to being charming. And she very much wanted to charm the man in the cowboy hat, jeans, boots and tough work gloves.

  Because she wanted something from the foreman of Far Hills Ranch, this Luke Chandler.

  She needed something from Luke Chandler.

  She intended to get it.

  “Go back the way you came,” he said. “Past the deserted house down by the red barn, then turn right.”

  He was telling her to leave? If she couldn’t fulfill this small mission, how could she hope to succeed in her larger goal? Dismay dropped her stomach at the same time determination lengthened her spine. She wouldn’t fail, that’s all.

  “I beg your pardon? I’ve been waiting here to – ”

  “Getting the haying done comes before giving directions. Rain soon.” It was an explanation, but not in any sense an excuse or an apology. “After you turn right past the old house, that’ll take you to the highway. Go left for the town of Far Hills, right for Sheridan.”

  “But I don’t – Oh. No, you misunderstood. I’m not lost.”

  “Have it your way. I’d’ve figured it was hard to get lost round here when there’s only one road. Folks like you manage it just the same.”

  Folks like you. He’d barely looked at her, yet was making judgments. She swallowed down irritation at that.

  “One road or not, if you don’t know where it’s going, it would be easy to get lost.”

  She said it with a cultivated smile, though an edge worked into her tone. How many times had Grandmother reprimanded her for that? What if he –

  He tilted his head back, raising the shadow of his hat brim enough that light caught his eyes. And in that instant, she caught a flash of respect, perhaps a little amusement.

  Simon, her most frequent escort back in Delaware, might have said Touché. This man said nothing, and just dropped his head so the shadow cut across his face again.

  “If you’re not lost, what’re you doing here dressed like that?”

  It wasn’t hard to translate the movement of his head into a dismissive survey of her clothes, lingering on her dirt-dappled pumps.

  She wore a perfectly dignified suit. Not what she would have worn if she’d known the business meeting she’d scheduled with the ranch owner was going to turn out to be a tromp through mud with the ranch foreman, yet a classically conservative choice.

  So where did he get off making comments about her being dressed like that? Especially dressed the way he was, why it was nearly indecent the way those jeans – Not that that really mattered. How he looked or how she might look to him was not the point.

  She smiled coolly and held out her hand.

  “I’m here to see you, Mr. Chandler. My name is Rebecca Dahlgren, I’d like to talk to you about – ”

  “Marti Susland’s who you should be talking to.” He gave his still-gloved hand a slight flip as if to indicate that was why he didn’t shake hands – again, it was no excuse and certainly not an apology. “She owns Far Hills Ranch, along with some other family members. And she’s in charge.”

  Darn cowboy hat. She wished she could see under it.
It left her at a distinct disadvantage – while she couldn’t see his eyes, she sure could feel them. Watching her, gauging, judging?

  Her voice gave none of that away. “Ms. Susland said I should speak with you – that you would decide – ”

  “Why’d she say that?”

  That threw her off. “I don’t know.”

  “Maybe you should find out. I’m just the foreman. You won’t be getting any commission out of me.”

  “Commission? I don’t get a commission. The fee is flat and – ”

  “Commission or no commission, I wouldn’t sell if I could, but I don’t own it, so I can’t. Got it?”

  Yeah, she got it, the arrogant, rude –

  Rebecca reined in her temper with a deep breath. She dredged up another smile. “Mr. Chandler, I think you are under a misapprehension. I am not here to buy the land. I want – ”

  “You’re not a real estate agent?”

  “No.” Exasperation seeped into that short answer, which didn’t seem to bother Luke Chandler any.

  He rubbed the side of his gloved thumb against his chin. She followed the movement as the faint sound of leather against stubble thrummed across her nerve-endings. When his thumb stilled against his jaw, her gaze rose. He’d raised his head enough that his light-colored eyes glowed out at her like embers about to spring to life with ... flame.

  She looked away, studying the spray pattern of dirt her travels had added to the side of her car since morning.

  “So, you’re not from Denver or Salt Lake or Cheyenne.”

  “No, I live here, in Far Hills. The town,” she added, then wished she hadn’t. Of course he’d know she lived in the town, not on the ranch of the same name, since he lived here. “I only recently arrived.”

  “Is that a fact?”

  It was too polite to be mockery, but barely.

  He gave her that up and down look again. This time she almost felt as if he were circling her, like a predator.

  She clenched her teeth, and held her position without flinching.

  “You’re not living in Far Hills – the town – to scout ranchland to buy? You’re not with some real estate company?”

  “Real estate? No. I have a contract with the Fort Big Horn historical site commission to select, install and implement a computer system there. It will not occupy all my time, however, and Ms. Susland indicated there might be a position here that would supplement that work.”

  She’d had eighteen minutes to practice the speech she’d formulated on the drive from the owner’s house, and it came out just the way she’d planned it. “However, she said that your approval would be necessary before we could proceed. She directed me to this pasture so we could – ”

  “Pasture?” He leaned back against the side of her car, one booted foot across the other ankle, arms that strained the faded shirt’s seams crossed over a broad chest, his male arrogance not the least dimmed by the film of pale dust that clung to him. “Where you from, Rebecca Dahlgren?”

  “I don’t know what difference that could possibly make.”

  She was an outsider, she didn’t need it pointed out. She had been an outsider in Delaware, where she’d lived her entire life; it was unlikely to change here, where she was a newcomer.

  “I’m wondering where people think that somebody who doesn’t know a pasture from a field would be any use on a ranch.”

  “I know how to customize a computer and I would be consulting on a computer system for the ranch,” she pointed out with admirable calm – if she said so herself, “not branding cows.”

  “Good thing,” he muttered. “So how do you choose the right computer system to run a ranch without knowing anything about ranching?”

  An astute question that pegged the consultant’s challenge perfectly.

  “It would be a system to help run the ranch, so I’d track the people who are doing the job now. From the information Ms. Susland supplied, a great deal of the operation funnels through you. Therefore I would begin with you. We’d start with an overall interview, leaving the in-depth work for – ”

  He was shaking his head. “No time. Besides, don’t you know about Far Hills Ranch?”

  Her heart jolted. He couldn’t know anything ... could he?

  No, no, of course he couldn’t.

  “Know what?”

  With his gloved hand, he notched up the brim of his hat, setting it on the back of his head. The lift of his brows showed that he hadn’t missed her reaction.

  And she realized the hat alone didn’t hide his expression. It was his eyes. He had those sleepy-looking eyes that weren’t sleepy at all, with half-mast eyelids that gave away so little, while entirely capable of taking in more than she would have liked.

  “Far Hills and the Suslands are cursed.”

  “Cursed?” she echoed in disbelief.

  “That’s what people say.”

  “Superstition is nonsense.”

  He shrugged, shifting the shirt’s material against his shoulders, moving his open collar to show a different patch of strong, brown neck. “Have it your way.”

  “If this ranch were cursed, why would you work here for Ms. Susland?”

  He smiled, slow and wide, drawing back well-formed lips from strong white teeth. It invited her in to the joke, made her a partner in it. It invited other things, too. Heat trickled an unsettling path down Rebecca’s backbone.

  “Because,” he drawled, “I don’t give a damn what people say.”

  “So I’ve heard. I’ve also heard this supposed curse certainly hasn’t scared you off from Ms. Susland.”

  She regretted those rash words instantly.

  She hadn’t meant to imply anything about him and his employer, although she could see how it could be taken that way. She should have been more careful after having her ear bent with her landlady’s gossipy speculation on that very subject.

  So you’re going out to Far Hills Ranch, are you? Helen Solsong had sniffed disapprovingly. People say Marti Susland’s been up to something lately, if you know what I mean. Why, he must be a good fifteen years younger than her, not to mention his wild ways. But I suppose it’s the ranch he’s after.

  Luke Chandler pushed off Rebecca’s car, his eyes neither sleepy nor hidden now, but utterly cold.

  “You heard right. I don’t give a damn what people say – not about me. But anybody says things about people I respect, I don’t take it so lightly.”

  “Mr. Chandler, I didn’t – ” Her hand on his arm stopped him as he was about to pivot away. He looked over his shoulder at her, his expression never softening. “I’m sorry. I truly didn’t mean that the way I fear you might have taken it.”

  “Okay.”

  “Please, can’t we talk? Maybe go somewhere and have a cold drink or – ”

  He stepped away from her hand and kept going. “Work to do.”

  He was halfway to the tractor when he turned back. Without preamble, he said, “A field’s planted with a crop. A pasture’s ground that’s not worked, only grazed. Remember that.”

  * * * *

  Rebecca Dahlgren sat cross-legged – a position never allowed in Grandmother’s presence – on the bed in her apartment and polished her shoes over a towel, with saddlesoap and a bit of soda water, the way Helmson had taught her years ago. She doubted, however, that the Dahlgren butler had ever had to first scrape dried mud from a pastu – field! – off his shoes into the toilet.

  She supposed apartment was rather a grand description for the combined living room and bedroom, compact bathroom and miniature kitchen carved out of the attic of Helen Solsong’s house. As long as it provided the basics and a passable electrical system for her computer, she was satisfied. And this rental even boasted a private entrance via stairs that climbed from the double garage where she had the right to park her car.

  It had taken a few days to accustom herself to the idiosyncrasies of the shower, the gurgle the refrigerator made at irregular intervals and the odd size of the bed that made sin
gle sheets too small and doubles too roomy. Now that all seemed oddly endearing because they were hers.

  It was the first apartment she’d ever rented, and she’d felt triumphant the day she’d told Helen Solsong that she would take it, then handed over the first month’s rent. It had seemed such a major step in her journey toward finally getting some answers. Almost as satisfying as the day four weeks earlier when the historical site commission had awarded her the computer consulting contract, giving her a reason to come to Far Hills.

  Today had dimmed the triumph significantly, though. The only step she’d taken in her meeting with Luke Chandler had been backward.

  Not only had she insulted the man, she’d gotten entirely too caught up in ... other things. That was inappropriate with a man like that, whispered a voice in her head that sounded suspiciously like her grandmother’s.

  A man like what? With a great rear end and a broad chest and sleepy eyes that looked like they weren’t interested in sleeping? probed a second voice with a taunt.

  Over the years, Rebecca had grown adept at sidestepping the first voice, whether it came from inside her own head or from her grandmother’s mouth. The second voice, however, was becoming unruly lately.

  And this time the first voice had a point. Not on the basis of snobbishness, but because Luke Chandler was a step toward something much more important than a great rear end.

  She put her second shoe down to dry before she buffed, and twisted around to open the drawer in the bedside table, withdrawing a leather portfolio. From an inside pocket she removed one of the copies she’d made of the old letter that had directed her quest here.

  “... with a man like me, your mother accepting me is as likely as the Suslands giving me Far Hills Ranch. You know this is the only way ...”

  Rebecca stared at the words as if she didn’t already have them memorized.

  A man like me.

  The man who was her father. Although father clearly was a title he had no interest in.

  A man who’d created a life with a woman, then never showed the least interest in that life. That spoke of one kind of man. Yet the letter, with words that seemed to swing from affection to distance and hope to hopelessness, might have spoken of another kind of man.