After the Rodeo Read online

  Her passion for her job...

  ...could cost him everything

  Former rodeo champion Jace Hendricks has six weeks to turn his run-down ranch around or he could lose custody of his nieces and nephew. But biologist Vivian Reed has to survey his land first—and she won’t be rushed. Vivian’s optimism and wonder start to win over the kids...and even Jace. But with all that’s at stake, can he risk getting any more involved with Vivian?

  The music faded away and Jace twirled Vivian one more time...

  Then he stepped in and caught her, dipping her slightly. When he set her back on her feet, she was laughing breathlessly, her mouth open. She looked at him and his own breath caught as every part of him said this. This was what he wanted. Vivian in his arms, smiling up at him. Vivian having fun with him.

  Her eyes met his and her smile faded, replaced by a more serious gaze. She wanted to kiss him, he could tell, and no way could he resist because he wanted it, too. So he held her gaze and brushed his lips over hers.

  Her arms were on his shoulders from the dance, which was pretty nice, but nothing compared to the feeling of her sliding them around his neck, going up on her tiptoes and kissing him back...

  Dear Reader,

  After the Rodeo just poured right out of my heart. Jace, a former bull rider, and Vivian, a wildlife biologist, are both realizing that life won’t cooperate with their plans. But they discover friendship, love, community and new dreams. I hope you enjoy their journey to happily-ever-after!

  Writing the Heroes of Shelter Creek series is such a joy, in part because I get to write about my beloved heartland, the northern California coast. It was fun to include California’s native elk, the tule elk, in this book. My favorite encounter with them was a couple decades ago. My friend and I were riding our bicycles down a steep hill when a group of elk started to run alongside us. They stayed just yards away from us, leaping and galloping, for a very long time. I cherish that magical memory!

  In this story I get to explore another thing I care deeply about—chronic illness. I hope this story reminds us that even in difficult circumstances we can find new possibilities for ourselves, and more compassion for each other.

  Thank you for reading After the Rodeo. Please look for me on social media or at clairemcewen.com. I always love hearing from readers!

  Claire McEwen

  After the Rodeo

  Claire McEwen

  Claire McEwen writes stories about strong heroes and heroines who take big emotional journeys to find their happily-ever-afters. She lives by the ocean in Northern California with her family and a scruffy, mischievous terrier. When she’s not writing, Claire enjoys gardening, reading and discovering flea-market treasures. She loves to hear from readers! You can find her on most social media and at clairemcewen.com.

  Books by Claire McEwen

  Harlequin Heartwarming

  Heroes of Shelter Creek

  Reunited with the Cowboy

  Visit the Author Profile page at Harlequin.com for more titles.

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  For Sally, who faced down a charging tule elk while I cowered in the bushes. It’s been two decades since you scolded it into leaving us alone (“Bad elk! Go away!”) and I’m still laughing.

  And for Beth and Steve, who invited me to the Russian River Rodeo. That one fun day inspired many stories, including this one!

  Acknowledgments

  I owe a huge debt of gratitude to the Marin Agricultural Land Trust, the Lupus Foundation of America, the Point Reyes National Seashore, the California Department of Fish and Wildlife, the Center for Biological Diversity and the wonderful organization Wildcare in San Rafael, California. All mistakes and embellishments are my own.

  No book is ever written alone. My brilliant editor, Adrienne Macintosh, helped me find the most important story in all of my ideas and tangents. My wonderful husband, Arik, helped me find time to write when time was scarce. I am so grateful to both of you for believing in my stories.

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  EPILOGUE

  EXCERPT FROM THE RANCHER’S FAMILY BY BARBARA WHITE DAILLE

  CHAPTER ONE

  JACE HENDRICKS STOOD on the porch of his run-down farmhouse on his run-down ranch and listened to the social worker give him the rundown on everything he was doing wrong.

  “Kids this age, and in this situation, need predictability,” she was saying. She was Mrs. Roxanne Sherman, an older woman with stick-straight gray hair and dressed in a gray business suit, as if she was trying to blend in with the fog that had rolled in from the Pacific this morning.

  Mrs. Sherman had been assigned to his case when Jace first brought his sister’s scared, sad kids to his Northern California hometown of Shelter Creek to live with him. And she’d been on his case ever since. “Children need a schedule they can count on and a parent they can count on,” she reminded him. “Someone steady and reliable.”

  That was pretty unfortunate, seeing as the kids’ mom, Jace’s sister, Brenda, and her boyfriend, Neil, had each been sentenced to almost twenty years in prison for various felonies.

  Then it hit Jace like a dash of cold water. Mrs. Sherman was talking about him. He was the parent. He was the one who had to be steady and reliable. And if she thought those two words described him, she wouldn’t be delivering this lecture.

  “Right,” Jace said carefully, because it seemed like she expected him to say something. “I am trying to be that kind of person.”

  He looked out at the kids, who he’d told to go play in the front yard. Though yard was an aspirational term. Right now it was just the raggedy stubble of weeds he’d mown, a few pieces of rusted-out farm equipment and the chopped-up trunk of a rotten oak he’d taken down yesterday.

  Eight-year-old Amy, her red curls blowing in a wild halo around her head, was balancing on the stump of the oak. Six-year-old Alex, always so quiet and withdrawn, was perched on the seat of an ancient plow, reading a book. And Carly, fifteen and impossible to figure out, was leaning on the fence by the road, talking on the cell phone she’d conned Jace into buying her when she first arrived at the ranch back in June.

  Who the teen was talking to, Jace had no idea. School had only started a month ago and the kids were new to Shelter Creek, but Carly’s phone was already buzzing constantly with incoming texts and calls.

  “Jace,” Mrs. Sherman said sharply, sensing, perhaps, that his mind was drifting. “You have to take this seriously. These kids need a more child-friendly atmosphere than this.”

  That was one of Mrs. Sherman’s favorite themes. And Jace got it. This ranch wasn’t exactly kid friendly yet. But he wished she would cut him just a little slack. He’d bought the property just three months ago. It might need a lot of work, but it was the only ranch around here he could afford.

  After over a decade on the road chasing ro deo glory, Jace hadn’t owned a home of his own when he’d taken the call from Social Services, informing him that his sister was in jail and her three kids were headed for foster care.

  Jace had been in a hotel room outside of San Antonio that night, celebrating his victory at the rodeo there with a bottle of bourbon and a blonde gal named Lovey. But once he’d put the phone down, he’d no longer been in the mood to celebrate. He had felt all of his dreams, dreams that had finally come together, sliding out of his grasp. Taking everything familiar right along with them.

  He’d spent a long time making a living as a fairly good bull rider, knocking around the circuit for years. But then, somehow, just about a year ago, he’d started winning. And winning some more. After a decade of living out of his truck and paying his dues, somehow Jace’s time had come. There wasn’t a bull out there that he couldn’t wring a ride from. He was a rising star, on the winning streak he’d almost given up hoping for.

  And then one phone call changed everything. Jace couldn’t let his nieces and nephew be raised by strangers. He wasn’t going to let them endure any more uncertainty or abuse. They deserved a good childhood, not one that they merely tried to survive. Not a childhood like he and Brenda had endured. And not foster care, where, the social worker on the phone had warned him, the kids would probably be split up because the system was bursting at the seams and no one wanted to take in three older children.

  Who knew where they’d have ended up? He might be the most unqualified parent on the planet, but he’d never hurt the kids. The memories of his own father’s rage were etched too deep for that.

  Plus he owed it to them. He owed it to Brenda. He’d known for a while that she was struggling. He’d known she had a problem with drugs. He should have checked on her and the kids more often. Should have tried to get her to rehab again. But he’d had his own goals to pursue, and maybe he’d been attracted to those rodeo lights and the thrill of riding those bulls as a way to deal with his demons, just like Brenda had been driven to drugs.

  So right there, over the phone from San Antonio, Jace had agreed to take the kids. He’d tossed the bourbon in the trash, sent Lovey on her way, and called his agent and said goodbye to everything he’d worked so hard for. When dawn hit with its dim promise, Jace had been on the road to Los Angeles to get the kids. Each mile under his truck’s wheels had pulled him further from everything he’d ever wanted and toward a life that was nothing but questions. Where to live? What to do for money? And how the hell was he going to raise a bunch of kids?

  Jace barely caught Mrs. Sherman’s next words. Something about clearing out the logs and setting up a play structure for Amy and Alex.

  “Okay,” he assured her. “I’ll look into it.” Gulping in a breath of misty air, Jace tried to cool the worry pressing hot on his chest. He didn’t have the money to buy some fancy play structure right now. Most of his funds had gone to purchasing this ranch and fencing off some of the best grazing land on the property. The last of his money was set aside for the cattle he’d buy soon. The start of his herd.

  Maybe he could nail some of this old junk together to make a structure, though he doubted that’s what the social worker had in mind.

  He turned to face Mrs. Sherman, wishing she’d go, because no matter what he did it wouldn’t be adequate in her eyes. She’d wanted Jace to buy a house in town. Raise the kids in a safe, controlled setting. But walking away from rodeo had already felt a little like dying. If Jace moved to town, he might as well be buried, too. No way was he going to survive in some nine-to-five job, if he even qualified for one.

  At least a ranch was something he could get excited about. He was planning to raise beef cattle for now, but maybe eventually he’d raise his own line of bucking bulls, so when the kids were older he could be a part of the rodeo again.

  And even if Mrs. Sherman couldn’t see it, growing up on this land would be good for the kids. On a ranch he could be around for them. He could provide them a healthy life with a lot of time out of doors. In fact, maybe once Mrs. Sherman left today, he’d take the kids down to the barn. He’d managed to find a couple docile horses—just older trail horses that had come cheap—and he was determined to get the kids riding. They all seemed happier around the horses.

  Jace wanted to make them happy. He wanted to be happy, too. But most days they were all just getting by.

  “It’s not just a play area,” Mrs. Sherman said. “This ranch isn’t safe for kids. All of this old, rusty farm equipment should be disposed of, and the barbed wire fences lying on the ground have to be replaced or removed. Your porch is falling down. It has to be repaired, along with any outbuildings or structures that the children might get into.”

  What she was asking for was huge. The acres closest to the house were basically a junkyard of the previous owners’ abandoned belongings. And just about every building on the property was falling apart. That’s why this land had come so cheap.

  He tried to explain. “All that is cosmetic. I need to focus on getting the barns and pastures ready so I can get cattle in here. Then I can start earning some income.”

  “These are safety issues.” Mrs. Sherman’s crossed arms and pursed lips allowed no argument. “Plus, cleaning up the property will increase the children’s sense of order. It will improve their self-esteem and their feelings of security.”

  Jace bit back the words he wanted to say. That their sense of security would probably improve if he could earn an income. But he couldn’t start an argument. He needed Mrs. Sherman on his side. He forced the frustration out of his voice. “I understand. But cleanup will take money. And I need the rest of my savings to get my herd started.”

  “You can always get a job.” Mrs. Sherman’s voice dripped with deceptive sweetness. Sugar on a toothache.

  Even though she drove out to check on Jace from Santa Rosa, a city surrounded by ranches and vineyards, somehow Mrs. Sherman didn’t think agriculture counted as real work. Jace was tempted to ask her if she knew where her food came from, but figured it wouldn’t help their relationship much.

  “Ranching will be my job.” Jace forced his voice to stay calm. “I know you don’t see it, but this property is starting to come together.” He pointed west, toward the hills rolling parched and brown out toward the Pacific coast. “There’s a valley just past that hill. Folks call it Long Valley and it’s a part of my ranch. I finished repairing the fences there last week. That means I can bring my first cattle in. They’ll graze there while I get everything else up and running. I’m on my way to making this ranch profitable. I hope you can be patient.”

  For a moment, something like regret shadowed Mrs. Sherman’s impermeable expression. “I don’t make the rules, Jace. You’ve said you want to legally adopt the kids. To do that, you need to show you can support them, long-term. I have to be able to write something on the forms where it asks for your income.”

  “Right.” Jace forced the air past the tightness in his lungs. “And I will have income. Soon.”

  “And everything cleaned up and kid friendly.”

  “Yes,” Jace managed. “That, too.”

  “I know you’ll figure it out, if you want to create a comfortable home for the kids.” Maybe Mrs. Sherman meant to be reassuring, but it sounded a lot like a threat.

  “Just give me a little time.” Jace pulled off his hat and ran a hand through his hair. Suddenly the damp morning felt sticky. His stomach seethed like he’d swallowed a rattler.

  He’d been on the road for years, been his own man, accountable to no one but himself. Now he was being micromanaged by Social Services.

  For about the millionth time in the past several months, he cursed his sister and her addictions and her drug-dealing boyfriend and her neglect of these poor kids. But that took him nowhere but down, so he tried to do what he did before a ride on a bull—pull in a deep breath and center himself for whatever came next.

  Though sometimes Mrs. Sherman seemed more dangerous than the toughest bull. It wasn’t just his life and his well-being at stake anymore.

  “I’ll do my best to implement all of your ideas.” He had to push the words out through the cracks in his pride.

  “That’s good.” Strange how she could keep her voice so brisk and to the point when he felt like he was being turned inside out. “Now. There’s still something else we have to discuss. That citation a couple weeks ago.”

  And there it was. The thing Jace had been hoping she’d overlook. But of course she wouldn’t. And she probably shouldn’t, because even Jace could see that a guy who got arrested in a barroom brawl might not be the best foster dad.

  “Yeah,” he said slowly. “About that.”

  “The sheriff sent me a report. He said he had to detain you.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Jace’s boyhood manners, pounded into him by his dad’s fists, emerged at times like this.

  “You were drunk and disorderly.”

  “Well, more disorderly than drunk, actually.” He’d been a few sips into his first beer when his best buddy, Caleb, heart all broken up over his girlfriend, had started a fight down at the bar. “I was defending a friend.”

  “A fight is a fight.” Mrs. Sherman sighed, a breathy, long-suffering sound. “It’s not your first arrest for this type of thing. When you agreed to take the children, the social worker in Los Angeles chose to overlook your history of...” she paused, as if she couldn’t bring herself to say the words “...bar fights. Because you assured her that you didn’t engage in that type of behavior anymore.”

  And Jace had meant it. As of that moment, he’d made a promise—no more drinking or late nights in bars. No more buckle bunnies like Lovey. “I don’t fight, as a rule,” Jace assured her. “My buddy, he’d had his heart broken. And he kind of lost it. He’s a veteran and has a bit of a temper. I was trying to break up the fight, but then some other guys jumped in and it got out of hand.”