Chapter One
Ryan Kincaid hated wasting time. Hank, his grandfather, called him impatient. His late grandmother, Susie, used to berate him for twitchy legs. If he had focused more on fixing the flaw at any point in his thirty-eight years, he wouldn’t have been in such a rush today. Could he have saved himself from nearly cutting off his finger? Probably.
The day went downhill before he even got out of bed.
The phone rang ahead of the alarm.
BRING. BRING. BRING.
The loud ringtone blared.
He stifled the growl building in his throat. The peaceful tones he’d selected for his alarm gently should rouse him. The electronic chime blasted, drawing attention for the caller.
Instead of sitting and reaching for his cell phone, he kept his head on the pillow and fumbled for the device on the nightstand. He swatted the phone off the smooth surface, it landed with a thud on the wooden floor.
The phone stopped ringing. He turned his head to the cool side of the pillow. Good, maybe he could get another few minutes of sleep.
Under his four-post bed, the cell rang again, louder than before.
Grumbling, he rolled out of bed and knelt on the floor. With his cheek pressed against the boards, he groped, his fingers connecting with the device near the back corner. Reaching, he caught the cell and tweaked his shoulder. Grunting, he retrieved the device and frowned at the screen. Two missed calls from his ranch hand, Ted.
In a rush, he pulled on his jeans and work shirt, groaning as his aching shoulder stretched. Downstairs in the kitchen, he operated on autopilot, brewing coffee without too much thought. He tapped a quick text message to Ted, grabbed a travel mug, and reached for the glass pot. He grabbed the carafe off the coffee maker too early. Hot coffee scalded his hand and spilled onto the floor. With paper towels, he soaked up the mess but couldn’t rid the room of the lingering stench of burnt coffee.
He rinsed his hands with cold water. The icy chill did the caffeine’s job, jolting him to full alertness. He wasn’t sure he’d survive his next slip-up.
He didn’t wait to greet his grandfather to review the day’s plans. Striding from the house, he was out the front door as the sun rose. With the opening day approaching and guests arriving soon, he didn’t have time for pleasantries. His grandfather, a dyed in the wool cowboy, would understand.
Missing those moments with his grandfather, however, nagged Ryan for hours. Since losing Grandma, he never wanted to take a moment for granted. Their time together was too precious to let a single second slip past unremarked or a beautiful morning go unnoticed.
The Kincaids had been ranching outside Herd, Montana since the nineteenth century. As one of the three founding families, their legacy was awash with intrigue and backstabbing. Eventually, they’d found stability and mutual respect with their only remaining neighbors, the Hawkes. Over the past decade, however, the Kincaids had been the last ranchers standing. And then Ryan had sold off the cattle and chased after an unexpected idea. High-end tourism.
Hopping into his truck, he drove out to the former Hawke property and the site of the newest lodging for the ranch’s guests. Grass stretched toward the horizon, unbroken and abundant in every direction. The ground rose and fell in gentle undulations. His property had been claimed by his forebears for its pond and the creek that ran through the eastern boundary, believing a false claim of gold. But this stretch of landscape had been coveted by many a Kincaid for its seeming infinity.
He met up with Ted and the rest of the crew at the yurts. The traditional canvas tent home for nomadic tribes had been a unique choice for additional accommodation. Circular in shape, the structures both stuck out and blended into the rolling grass landscape. Set back from the new property line, he couldn’t see his annoying neighbor Megan’s house nor could she see his. He didn’t want to encroach on anyone’s privacy, legal right or no.
Sniggering, he shook his head. The woman would talk to his guests until they cried uncle and ran away, but he was steering clear. He wasn’t some selfless neighbor, but a man looking out for his best interests. Since childhood, Megan had been an incessant chatterbox. Had she ever had a moment of quiet contemplation? Could she keep a thought or opinion to herself without blurting every idea to any passer-by? Didn’t she have friends for girl-talk? He hated feeling cornered at every encounter.
Of course, Hank didn’t care. She was thick as thieves with his grandfather. Always had been. In his youth, their bond stuck in Ryan’s craw. Couldn’t she spend her summer vacation with her family and leave his alone?
Grandma had understood. She was quiet like Ryan. To his chagrin, Grandma, his staunchest ally, had found Meg charming in the sort of head-scratching, bewildering way he reasoned everyone must like her. He wanted peace. Meg craved chaos. Even now, when she wasn’t physically close, she was stirring up his mind.
Rachelle Paige Campbell 