Sugar Hill Ranch: A Western Small

Town Steamy Romance Leanne Davis

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SUGAR HILL RANCH
REED RANCH SERIES, BOOK TWO
LEANNE DAVIS
 CONTENTS

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Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Epilogue

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Other Books by Leanne Davis
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 CONTENT WARNING

May contain spoilers:

Please note this title deals with divorce, strong language, sexual situations, and
mature content matter. It specifically touches on memories dealing with a child’s
death.
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 CHAPTER 1

M ACK BAKER PUSHED DEEP inside the woman on the table

beneath him. Her entire body jerked and thumped with his thrust.
She screeched and moaned in loud, obnoxious ecstasy. Quickly
finding his finish, he grunted before he released her. Not once did he
kiss, hug, or hold her.
Turning around, he chucked the used condom into the waste
basket beside him. Her motel room was cheap, with a threadbare
carpet and mysterious stains on the bedspread. He chose the small
table to support the weight of the strange woman.
Finished now, he quickly pulled his jeans up and buttoned himself
back in.
The woman didn’t even move. Finally, she sat up, her hair
tangled with snarls and her blouse and skirt twisted askew. He
barely managed to rip her panties off before starting in on the quick,
hard sex. She touched her lips. “What was your name again,
cowboy? Jack?”
“Mack.” He didn’t even glance at her. Fuck. It wasn’t such a hard
name to remember. He met her at the horse show tonight in which
he performed. The Rydell River Ranch conducted the show in a
large, commercial arena designed for competitions and dressage.
Mack was one of the main cowboys that trained and performed in it.
He’d been doing it for a long time. The crowds he drew were usually
huge and often filled with more women than men. Mack used all his
tricks, skills and showmanship with the horses to delight the
audiences.
 Plenty of women offered him sex. Just like this one. The cowboy
aspect seemed to intrigue most of them. Mack found it odd that they
would consider such a lifestyle sexy. As a ranch hand, he worked on
a daily basis with the animals, gathering animal dung, mud and
detritus on his clothes. Nothing too glamorous about that. Certainly
not sexy either.
To his surprise, these cultured, citified women got very turned on
by his dirty jeans, t-shirt, and cowboy hat. They reacted as if they
didn’t believe he was the real thing. It was actually his way of life.
Nothing unique. It just was.
Sometimes, he accepted their offers of anonymous sex. When he
was tired or uninterested, however, he simply ignored them. Tonight,
he needed a release.
Mack never failed to use condoms when he had sex. Each and
every time. His yearly doctor visits were all he needed to make sure
he was healthy and free of any STDs.
Now, he was heading home. He didn’t say goodbye to the
woman who couldn’t remember his name, but walked out the door.
He was still slightly drunk from the bottle of whiskey she graciously
offered him and which he drank gratefully.
In the motel lobby, he called Tyrone. “You around? I hooked up
over at the motel. Can you drive me home?”
Tyrone grumbled but Mack knew he’d come. Their unwritten pact
required them to always cover each other’s back. Tyrone was often
summoned since he was most centrally located.
Mack did plenty of favors for him in return, and didn’t give a shit
if Tyrone’s beauty sleep was interrupted. Tyrone pulled up a few
minutes later, looking sleepy as he glared at Mack. “Hope your hot
fuck was worth it.”
 “Not. She called me Jack.” She was nothing out of the ordinary
and Mack knew he’d forget her by tomorrow.
Tyrone snorted. “Don’t you think you’re getting too old for this
shit?”
He knew he was. “No. I’ll die doin’ this shit.”
Mack was the oldest of the cowhands, with a decade or more on
all of them. Justin was the baby at twenty-eight years. Tyrone was
around thirty. Mack was the old dude at forty-two-years. His
weathered face made him look more like fifty years old, which he
attributed to hard living. He’d been told more than once he was a
rough-looking, old bastard. Having a tall, lean build was an asset,
and Mack was very strong, and tough as rawhide. Age couldn’t slow
down his metabolism, and his excessive drinking never resulted in
any hangovers.
Ty snorted. “You’re one cryptic ass. Ever think of doing
something new?”
“Nope.” Mack smiled as he relaxed in the passenger seat. His
head was spinning. Ty was a good guy. They all were. Everyone
except Mack. No one understood Mack because he never told them
anything personal. Fifteen years ago, he showed up at the Rydell
River Ranch, got hired, and ever since then, he clung to the job with
all his might. His bouts of drinking and having sex with prostitutes
were initially carried out in places outside the ranch. Hookers were
his only sexual partners then. After he started performing in the
horse shows, however, plenty of nice-looking, society women began
throwing themselves at him. If he’d run into them at the grocery
store or a gas station, however, they’d have snubbed him. He hated
the hypocrisy.
The car swayed and pulled down the long, winding backroad into
the mountains. It was a fourteen-mile trip to reach his new home,
and Mack fell asleep. He woke up to Ty jerking his shoulder while
saying, “Get out, Mack. I wanna sleep too.”
Shifting, Mack grabbed the door handle and barely opened his
eyes. “Sure. Sure, Ty.” Flopping out of the vehicle, he almost fell to
the ground. Then he glanced at the barn and the house.
The tall house was a magnificent, architectural beauty that shone
like a beacon among the hills behind it. Moonlight illuminated the
entire valley with a bright, other-worldly glow. The pristine, white
house had several porches and gables, sitting like a queen on the
hillside of the ranch. It always filled Mack with awe.
He loved the old house and its location. Asher and Daisy Reed
were lucky as hell to hold the deed to this place. Asher’s dad, AJ
Reed, bought the ranch for him after he married Daisy, formerly a
Rydell, and Asher were both well-liked in the valley. In Mack’s eyes,
Asher had it made.
Not like Mack. He had to struggle for everything.
But Asher left his idyllic residence for more than a year because
of Daisy’s job. Who cared why? Their absence allowed Mack to live
at the mansion alone because he was the foreman now, in charge of
everything.
Sugar Hill Ranch.
It was named for the hill on the side of the house. In winter, it
was covered in snow, and people compared it to powdered sugar or
frosting. It was a popular destination for sledding and other winter
activities.
Mack liked to pretend he owned it. He was king of the hill here.
It was nice to imagine even though it wasn’t true. He slipped
through the front door quietly out of habit. He always felt like an
intruder even though there wasn’t another soul for at least fourteen
miles. It was a true showplace. So big and grand, the house was
isolated and very much alone, in the middle of fucking nowhere. The
Rydell River Ranch was also known for its remote location, but the
Sugar Hill Ranch was nestled in the mountains, well beyond all
civilization. Mack could only wonder why someone decided to build
this house in 1934 here.
Maybe the oddity of the place is what spoke to him. Mack always
considered himself a misfit. The delicate, majestic elegance seemed
more suited to an old Victorian house in the middle of San Francisco.
Not surrounded by endless acres of barren land.
And Mack had it all to himself. Damn right he enjoyed the
luxurious accommodations. Asher allowed him full use of the house
after he and Dasiy relocated their personal belongings and furniture
to a storage unit. Now it was furnished with generic items, and
Asher had plans to rent it out for income at some point. Fuck. Yuck.
Mack was not looking forward to that. Until then, however, he was
the caretaker, guard and handyman, a jack of all trades.
Temporarily.
Slipping off his boots at the front door, he stepped quietly
through the entry, leaving it dark. Moonlight from the undraped
windows created a surreal white path for him to follow. It was
prettier too without any artificial light.
Too tired to care, he threw his shirt on the floor, and his belt
dropped next. By the time he reached the master bedroom, he was
only wearing his dirty jeans, and they were half undone. He sat on
the bed and closed his eyes, nearly sighing with gratitude to be
home.
What the fuck?
The bed moved after just a few moments of being in it. Who?
What? How?
A woman?
 Hearing the scream, Mack had no doubt it came from a woman.
A scared, terrified, in his bed—woman.
It happened all at once. The bed moved. The body landed on top
of him, and she pressed a sharp blame to his throat.
That quickly, Mack was no longer drunk.

M aggie W hitlock woke up the instant she felt the mattress depress
beside her.
Her heart thudding with anxiety and fear, the body beside her
belonged to a stranger. Right there. Her breath caught, and she
froze in full terror. Cold sweat covered her in an instant.
Someone was sitting on the bed with her.
She was finally enjoying a deep sleep after lying awake for hours
with insomnia.
Her sleeplessness was grounded in fear. She was scared out of
her senses to be here, so far from anybody else, so she forced
herself to categorize all the strange night sounds she heard. Half the
night she tried to identify all the noises. That screech belonged to an
owl. That horrible groan came from the roof or maybe the floor of
the impossibly old house. It was still settling and seemed to talk to
her. Dating over a century, Asher recently renovated it with all the
modern conveniences and décor, but its bones were still ancient. The
creepy noises she heard in the middle of the night were all
innocuous and traceable.
Finally, she convinced herself there were no scurrying rats, mice
or psychopaths outside stalking her.
How could her mother be so heartless? Maggie was pondering
that thought while satisfying her quest to explain the curious night
noises. She seethed with anger at her mother.
Not at the husband who left her.
Not at herself for failing to realize her husband planned to leave
her.
Not at being abandoned with three young kids to raise.
She was all alone now.
That was what started her insomnia, which now prevented her
from getting any sleep. Weeks ago, her mother hammered the final
nail into her coffin.
Her mother was responsible for bringing her out there. Out in the
middle of nowhere. Literally, nowhere. Not a quirky, sweet, escape-
like destination, but actually, nowhere.
She was on a ranch. A working cattle ranch with a stupid, old
house that didn’t match the area where it was located. The large,
gorgeous, stately mansion was totally refurbished for its century old
age. It was attractively situated in the middle of a range of
mountains that overlooked the remote Rydell River Valley.
Maggie’s mother, Isla Whitlock thought Maggie would be more
comfortable on the ranch with her three children than in Isla’s single
bedroom apartment. Isla lived above the cupcake shop that she
owned and operated in downtown River’s End. Isla ditched her
whole family and moved across the state of Washington to settle in
River’s End. After getting divorced a few years ago, she wanted to
start a new life. She bought the dilapidated bakery in town and
called her new business Cowboys & Cupcakes, staging the grand
opening at the age of sixty-one. Additionally, she also managed to
find a boyfriend.
A boyfriend.
Her mother was getting laid but Maggie wasn’t.
 That horror still haunted Maggie. After witnessing her mom, clad
only in a man’s shirt, kissing the owner of the shirt, Maggie was
scarred forever. Her mom’s new rancher boyfriend was hotter than
any man Maggie ever dated, specifically her husband, and that fact
both startled and traumatized her.
Her mom’s new boyfriend turned out to be AJ Reed. His son,
Asher, wanted to rent out the old farmhouse and voila! Maggie and
her kids were unceremoniously shuffled into it.
Sugar Hill Ranch.
After navigating the long, winding road that wasn’t even paved
with gravel, she had to avoid all the pot-holes on the single dirt lane
and that instantly became a point of stress for Maggie. She
ascended the steep elevation, and she almost cried in utter dismay.
No. Her mother could not actually expect to leave her here. All
alone?
She stared out at the vast land that stretched before her. Where
the hell were they? Transplanted from normal civilization to a vast
wasteland? To the only spot on earth where no one else existed?
She couldn’t see another house anywhere. Just bare land. Grass
land. A few groves of trees dotted the infinite acreage. Many kinds
of trees that she never saw before. And of course, the hills and
mountains.
AJ and Isla had just pulled into the place where Maggie was
doomed to stay. For a short while. Temporarily. Not permanently.
She reasserted that intention to her sinking heart as she parked her
car next to AJ’s truck.
This was not forever. None of it. Not the ranch. Not her
occupation there. Not River’s End. Nor the collapse of her marriage.
Yes, that was forever. With a shudder, the grim realization sunk
in, yet again, and she knew her marriage was over. Done. The shock
took far too long to register in her brain and the ensuing
consequences of that in the long term, for herself, her girls, and the
rest of her life were still unknown.
This rural purgatory was now her home after getting dumped
and abandoned. At least her mother filled the cupboards and
refrigerator with food and other supplies. She also helped Maggie
make up four beds with fresh linens and stocked all the bathrooms
with fluffy towels and sundries.
Maggie didn’t share her negative thoughts with her mother. She
didn’t tell her mom she detested the place, and its inconvenient,
apocalyptic location or that she was absolutely terrified to stay there
all alone. She couldn’t muster the strength to oppose her mother’s
suggestion that she come here and stay with her three children, so
she tacitly complied.
Begrudgingly, she had to admit, from a purely esthetic
perspective, it was a grand, resplendent place with breath-stealing
landscapes and vistas.
But Maggie didn’t cherish having to view the gorgeous
landscapes and vistas in pitch black darkness with only the stars and
moon for light. Never mind, being there all alone.
Isla helped her set up the house with special touches she’d come
to expect from her mother. She was initially devastated when her
mother suddenly pulled up roots and moved across the state. Isla
was a crucial part of their daily lives and then poof. She was gone.
Isla was Maggie’s confidante, best friend, and everything else she
could possibly be.
Maggie never expected to miss her mom so damn much.
Knowing her mother preferred to be all alone, clear across the whole
state, rather than with her family members, pierced her childish
heart. She refused to accept the new reality until she had to.
 Maggie’s someday soon divorce came three years after her
parents’ divorce, and the trauma returned with all of its original
vengeance.
Her churlish attitude towards her mom and AJ ensued shortly
thereafter. She drove out to River’s End because she needed her
mother’s support and counsel after her husband left. Finding her
mother not only successful, but also happy and having sex with a
new man blew Maggie away. She knew by her mother’s smile and
demeanor that AJ Reed pleased her mother very much.
That was almost more painful than knowing her mom had moved
on. Maggie never saw that side of her mother before. Her mother
was never so happy with her dad. No. AJ fulfilled her mother’s
desires, unlike Martin Whitlock who only satisfied his own. Her
childhood memories were instantly thrust into a tailspin.
Her parents’ marriage wasn’t anything like what she believed it to
be. When it ended so did many of Maggie’s childish beliefs.
Now, Isla was happy, fulfilled, and fully expressing herself. The
stark contrast between the placid, quiet, stay-at-home-mom version
of Isla with this new, shiny, confident, amazing and sexy Isla was
like night and day.
But this new Isla wasn’t the mother that Maggie knew and
remembered. At times, she felt like she lost her mother even though
her mother was right there.
Maggie arrived unannounced at Isla’s place of business without
any warning, her three kids in tow. She was weeping and
heartbroken over her cheating husband. And what did her mother
do? Everything she possibly could. She welcomed Maggie and her
grandchildren with arms wide open. When Maggie sobbed and
fretted, she immediately asked her to stay right there with her in
River’s End.
 George, Maggie’s husband was already off with someone new. A
stranger. That mattered because it hurt. Not because she was a
strange woman, but because George preferred someone else to
Maggie.
Maggie loved being a stay-at-home mom, which she did for more
than eight years, ever since she had Caisley.
And she couldn’t stand to live in the house she once shared with
George. That was why she left Olympia and drove to River’s End.
She had custody of the three children now although her cheating
husband got visitation. She drove the kids to a public place halfway
to George’s home so they could have for their first visit with their
father.
That’s why she was alone on her first night at Sugar Hill Ranch,
unable to fall asleep until she finally did.
Then her worst nightmare came true. The very subject she tried
to convince herself was impossible, that no homicidal maniac would
dare to come all the way out there and break in because she was all
alone, came true. Her kids were safe with their dad and Maggie was
simply trying to settle into her transitional housing.
AJ was also helping her until an emergency on one of his many
ranches called him away. He kissed Isla and gave Maggie a quick
wave. “I’ll touch base with you tomorrow. Sorry, about this. It’s this
heifer’s first baby and she’s having a tough time with it.”
Maggie blinked at what constituted an emergency in this new
world of ranches and cowboys. She had no clue what that might
mean. But seeing how AJ roared out of there, it was important to
him.
So Isla finished helping her settle in. She was hesitant to leave
until Maggie finally waved her off. “You can’t babysit me forever,
Mom. I have to figure this out.”
 Isla hugged her daughter. “I’m sorry all of this is happening at
once.”
“You certainly didn’t cause it.” She closed her eyes in her
mother’s warm embrace. “Mom, you—you’ve done everything you
could to make it tolerable. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you when you
had to go through this on your own. And for all the years in-
between.”
Isla laughed as she leaned back to swipe her hand over Maggie’s
blonde curls and smiled, “Oh, honey. I love you.”
“I was so mad but it was never toward you. I just didn’t know
how to direct my anger, and Dad was already off and running with
his new flame. But you were still—”
“There. Yes, I know. Sometimes, that’s all a parent can do. Just
be there, although it’s hard, it’s okay. I know your heart, Mags. I
know you never meant to hurt me.”
“I could have been nicer.”
“You could have. And you are now. I didn’t realize what you were
going through either.”
Maggie smiled and jerked her head away. “Yes, overcoming your
parents’ divorce just as your own marriage goes south at breakneck
speed, well, it’s no excuse but it overwhelmed me at the time. I
thought things would improve after the baby was born, but no.”
“Just come with me to the apartment until the girls come back.”
Oh, how Maggie wanted to. Darkness was creeping into the
windows downstairs, and she threw her head back and tried to
shore up her nerves. No. She had to start taking care of herself. She
used and abused her mom for too many years, far longer than any
adult should. It was time to be a grownup and stop relying on her
mom. “No. I’ll be fine, Mom.” Such a lie. “The quiet will allow me to
decompress. I haven’t had any time to myself in years, maybe it’ll do
me some good.” A bigger lie.
But Isla bought it. With three kids no older than eight, yeah, she
might adore some alone time. Especially after being separated. But
here? Maggie couldn’t imagine how to relax long enough to find
peace or a new perspective.
All she felt was terror.
After scrambling upstairs, she pulled the shades down, shut the
bedroom door and filled the room with lights. She sat there with the
TV blaring until two am before she turned it off and the lights. A
crack of light from the bathroom provided a soft ambiance.
She gradually convinced herself there was no psychotic lunatic
coming to kill her.
Until he showed up.
Someone entered the house and was in her bed. Her eyes flew
open and she was fully awake in that moment.
Her initial numbness gave way to sudden action. She had to be
quick and sharp or she’d lose whatever advantage she had. She
wondered what the nighttime stalker wanted. Sneaking into her
house, the bedroom, and ultimately, her bed without any noise or
disturbing her seemed to be the MO of an accomplished killer. Why?
Why? Why? She lay frozen while staring wide-eyed at the barely
visible ceiling.
What should she do?
He was breathing softly. Not aggressively pawing her. He wasn’t
doing anything.
He was simply beside her!
Why?
Fuck. Shit. Damn. What the hell? She was so perplexed by his
inaction she didn’t know how to react.
 Finally, she grabbed the weapon she stashed under her pillow.
Grasping it with clammy hands, she lunged at him in one fluid
movement.
In a ruthless attack, she pounced on his throat with the sharp
blade.
She saw no other avenue for escape.

M ack lay still for a long , pronounced moment. The sharp weapon
remained at the center of his throat. The body on top of him was
female. No doubt of it. Her body was lithe and she smelled of a
sweet, floral scent. Breathing heavily, her entire body trembled
above his.
Why was a strange woman in his bed?
Drunk and half naked, he never noticed her.
But she noticed him.
Obviously.
He kept his hands flat on the bed. Fighting his instinct to grab
whoever was attacking him and throw them against the wall to bash
their head with a bloody splat, Mack overcame the urge and tried
very hard to be reasonable.
Fortunately, his split second of hesitation allowed him to come up
with a reason. Thank God.
He must’ve scared her. This strange woman. Her harsh breathing
and trembling hand made that pretty evident. Who else was in the
house? He had no idea. But a woman was in here… sleeping. And
she awoke to a strange man in her bed in the middle of the night.
Naturally, she panicked while trying to protect herself. He was
glad he didn’t hurt her, in his initial awareness of her presence. His
entire body remained tense even though he was motionless.
She moved and accidentally pressed the blade too hard into his
neck. He feared she could stab his fragile throat just from her
nerves. His only choice was to disarm her before he got hurt. He
regretted his next move, but it was necessary to defuse and
neutralize the situation. Later, he’d try to calm her down by
explaining he was no rapist. Nor a nighttime stalker, nor a psycho.
He was simply a drunken cowboy, the recently appointed foreman of
the ranch, and completely unaware that anyone had moved in to
rent it. He was seeking nothing more than a warm, soft bed.
She was never a consideration in his mind because he didn’t
even know she was there.
She was filled with terror already so this could only exacerbate it.
But Mack’s priority was merely keeping his throat intact. Mentally
counting to three, he grabbed her weapon-bearing wrist in his right
hand and flipped her under him all in one fluid movement.
She screamed, predictably, and thrashed around like a shark on a
line. Her super-human strength bucked and twisted under his body
weight, which he used to subdue her. Half covering her with his own
body, he pinned her wrist to the mattress and pressed hard on it. His
unrelenting pressure finally convinced her to release the weapon.
At that moment, the beam of light from the bathroom shone on
her, the poor woman whom he unwittingly attacked in bed.
He knew her. Shit. Did that make it any better or only worse? He
doubted the situation could get any worse.
Maggie.
Maggie Whitlock lay under him. She was still trembling, crying,
whimpering, and thrashing.
He nearly collapsed. No. Damn it. No.
He was fighting in bed with his boss’s step-daughter.
 He jumped away from her, straight off the bed, and recoiled as if
she were a nuclear bomb he had to escape.
The worst thing was: Mack doubted she knew his identity.
 CHAPTER 2

S TANDING UPRIGHT, MACK ALL but hugged the wall to get

away from Maggie. She scrambled just as fast to the opposite wall.
The bed was the only thing between them. The light was right over
it, in the middle of the room. Enough glow allowed him to see her
gripping her weapon while cowering against the wall.
She was terrified of him.
Fuck. Shit. Damn. Mack had a lot of bad encounters with the
opposite sex during his long, sordid history with them. He’d been
accused of being a user, a sleaze, a liar and a con-man sometimes.
But he was never violent or scary to women.
Did he anger them? Enrage them? And annoy them? Sure.
But he never did anything to deliberately scare them. He never
made any women feel worried for their lives. Not in his presence.
He shut his eyes and let the last few moments fully sink in. He
nearly climbed into bed with an innocent sleeping woman who
erroneously thought he came there to harm her. Rape her. Violate
her.
In the middle of fucking nowhere. There was no one else around.
No one to come to her aid. The poor thing. No wonder she was
shaking and looking deathly ill.
She was petrified of him.
Sighing, he shook his head. He would try to explain, calm her
down and work this out with logic and reason. But fuck. They
couldn’t have had a worse introduction. How could he even begin to
convince her he was just drunk and not a threat to her?
He cleared his throat. “Maggie, it’s not like it appears.”
 “How do you know my name?” she screeched before gasping for
air.
Mack nearly wilted in defeat. Fuck. That freaked her out even
more, if it were possible. No. Nothing could have possibly scared her
more than finding a strange man getting into her bed in the middle
of the night.
“No. No. Believe me, it’s nothing creepy. I’m—Mack. Mack Baker.
I work for AJ. I also live here. AJ pointed you out to me weeks ago
when I was in your mom’s bakery. That’s how I know your name. I
didn’t know you were gonna be here. It was all an—an accident. I
swear to God, I wasn’t tryin’ to… do anything except sleep.”
Fuck. Who accidentally climbs in bed with a strange woman?
Him.
How could he make her believe it was simply an accident?
Her terror was palpable. She glanced at him and then looked
away. Her fingers clasped the weapon tightly. She seriously still
intended to protect herself with it. It wasn’t even a damn knife, but
a pair of scissors. That was her weapon. It was so sad, it seemed
almost pathetic, but sweet. However, that wasn’t the point. The
blades could have easily cut him. If she’d really been attacked in the
middle of the night, her idea of climbing on top of the assailant to
only hold the weapon to his neck in a threatening manner couldn’t
suffice. She was smaller and weaker so he easily subdued her. Her
split second of hesitation allowed him that chance.
Thank Christ he took it, given the situation.
What if it hadn’t been him, but an imaginary assailant? He could
be torturing her right now. Mack was relieved that she was at least
safe.
His summation of the odd situation left him puzzled, and a bit
torn. He questioned his own feelings about it.
 “Maggie?” he prompted her when she didn’t react. He kept his
voice cool, low and soothing. The same tone he used to calm a
skittish horse or an abused dog. He had to gain her trust. He had to
end her innate horror because it was physically gripping both of
them. “AJ and Isla hired me to take care of the place. I didn’t know
you were even coming here. I planned to just go to bed. Alone. All
alone. That’s it.”
“AJ?” Maggie finally gasped with astonishment.
“Yes. Yes. AJ. AJ Reed hired me as the foreman and told me to
stay here. He’s my boss.”
In acquiescence to his words, without actually saying she
believed him, Maggie released the death-lock on her scissors and
stopped pointing them at him, pulling them up to her chest.
Mack raised his hands, as if he were under arrest, and started
speaking way too quickly. “I’m sorry I grabbed you so roughly. I was
afraid you might accidentally press the blade into my throat. It could
have done some serious damage. But I didn’t mean to hurt you, or
scare you more than you already were. I tried to… y’know, kinda
defuse the situation.”
Fuck. So this was the end of his run, at least with the Reed
family ranches. Maggie would probably say he deliberately tried to
climb into bed with her, which he did, and who’d believe his story or
his innocence?
“Oh, my God.” She suddenly wilted and seemed to crumple into a
heap like an empty bag. She dropped the scissors and slid her butt
on the wall to the floor. Adrenaline seemed to be the only thing
holding her up before she collapsed like a rag doll on the ground.
Now what? Did she believe him? Was she still afraid of him?
“Maggie?” Mack wondered if saying her name was the problem.
The situation was already creepy enough without exacerbating it.
“Ms. Whitlock?” Yeah, that sounded better. “I’m sorry for the
misunderstanding.”
She covered her face with her hands and started to cry.
Mack didn’t know how to respond to her reaction, and he
cautiously glanced around.
What in the fucking hell was he supposed to do now?
Walking forward, he noticed her shoulders were shaking with her
sobs but thought it best not to touch or approach her. Squatting
several feet away, Mack allowed plenty of space between them to
show her he had no nefarious intentions. “Hey. It’s okay. We just…
we both got startled, right? It’s okay, nobody got hurt.”
Did they? What if it wasn’t okay? Who’d believe him if she lied
and said he attacked her? He wasn’t exactly known for exhibiting
stellar behavior or maintaining a spotless reputation. The countless
women from his past were nearly all hookers. Too much drinking.
Too many bar brawls. Too many unsavory things to list.
Fuck.
But rape? Or assault on a woman? Never. Ever. No way.
What if no one believed that?
What the hell could he do?

M aggie was ruthlessly spun around . It happened so fast, she had no

time to do anything but react. All at once, a vise-like grip snatched
her wrist before shoving her whole body under him. As he held her
down with her wrists above her head, she could only pant in terror
at seeing her assailant on top of her. He was in control. She had to
release the weapon, her only chance for defense. She had no choice.
The pressure of his relentless grasp forced her to unclasp the
precious scissors.
Maggie cried out, expressing her pain, terror, and fear. The idea
of being incapacitated and at a strange man’s mercy was her most
dire scenario.
But as fast as he overtook her and proved she was no match for
him in physical strength, he was suddenly across the room.
He started speaking again.
Maggie. He knew her name. How? Why?
He mentioned AJ and her mother too. AJ knew Mack.
All the words seemed to echo from a distant tunnel. In tears,
Maggie looked around to find the safest place to escape her attacker
only to hear him say her name.
Maggie.
He used it twice. She shuddered. Had he been stalking her?
More explanation, more names.
Was that an apology? He was discussing ways to defuse the
tension and she stared at her own hand.
Her weapon. The one she held to her assailant’s throat. She
could have sliced him. Bled him out. In an instant, it could have
happened. Her hesitation was rooted in her fear to act. Ashamed for
what she’d almost done, Maggie fell on the floor and sobbed
piteously.
She was shaking too and couldn’t stop thinking, What if she’d slit
his throat?
She could have murdered him.
Mack whoever he was. He knew her mother and AJ. He was
staying inside the house?
He merely entered the bedroom to go to sleep?
 Thankfully, he remained a good distance from her. He said some
more words but did not approach her.
If he intended to hurt or overcome her, he could have easily done
so. Minutes ago, he had the perfect opportunity. On the bed or
anywhere he wanted. He could overpower her in a blink. A split
second.
But he didn’t.
She finally lifted her head to look at him and found Mack staring
back at her.
She never saw him before. Even though he said he knew her, she
was sure she didn’t know him. He was older than her, forty if he
were a day, and had dark hair and an unshaven face that seemed to
be the way he liked it. His light colored eyes were almost gray and
they brightened his whole face. He was shirtless and Maggie saw his
corded, muscular shoulders and fit, trim torso. Soft, wavy hair
showed on his chest and Maggie thought to herself, Male. He’s all
male. She liked how he wore his jeans low on his hips, and walked
around on bare feet.
His gaze was fastened on her. She all but gulped under his
scrutiny. He seemed sincerely contrite, and sorry for the mishap.
That was evident in his remorseful expression.
She saw no vulnerability in his face, his body, or even the way he
squatted. The man seemed as taut as a barbed wire fence, ready to
snap. Startled at his unshaken intensity, she curled back into herself.
“Ms. Whitlock? Please try and understand, I would never hurt
you.”
She merely blinked and he worried about her next reaction.
Loosening her grip on the scissors she clutched to her chest, she
said, “Okay…” and nodded as her breath whooshed out. Even the
adrenaline that was coursing through her started to lessen. “Um…
what did you say your name was?”
Mack’s mouth twisted up on one side. “Mack. Mack Baker. I’m the
foreman at Sugar Hill Ranch. AJ never told me you were moving in.”
She nodded, scoffing. “Obviously.” Then she added an obvious
sniff.
He winced. He knew he stunk. Almost as bad as a brewery or a
dive bar. She wrinkled her nose. “Were you sleeping in the master
bedroom?”
He stiffened. “Yeah. Actually, I was.”
“But there’s no personal belongings in here!”
“I got a duffel bag in the closet over there. Don’t have much for
belongings. Used to keeping up after myself.”
“Even making your bed?”
“Yep. And Asher told me to stay here when he and Daisy moved
out. You know Asher? The owner of this house?”
“Oh.” That explained it—a simple matter of omission. “AJ was
called away for a… some kind of cow emergency. He obviously
forgot to tell you—”
“Obviously.” He mimicked her tone.
Then they both just stared at each other. She still had tear tracks
on her face.
“This wasn’t any fun for you, and again, I’m really sorry for my
part in it.”
“And… I’m sorry too. I could have really hurt you.”
He nodded. “That thought occurred to me also. If you hadn’t
hesitated, it could have ended pretty badly for me.” He sighed as he
shook his head. “But—”
She sniffed and wiped at her cheeks with her sleeve. “But?”
 “If I’d been a predator, your momentary hesitation coulda caused
it to end badly—”
“For me,” she finished, shuddering.
“Yeah.”
“So your message is: don’t hesitate next time?”
He cringed as he replied, “No. Who says there’ll be a next time?
What’re the chances?”
A strangled laugh climbed up her throat. “No, I suppose they’re
pretty low. Extraordinary circumstances put me here, tonight, all
alone. That’s pretty unusual for me. So, you’re right.”
Another long silence descended. What the hell could they say?
More discussions about it? It was well past three in the morning, in
the middle of the night, in the middle of nowhere. What else could
they say?
His gaze fell on her again. “So… you’re renting the house?”
“I guess so.” She watched Mack rise to his full height. His long,
sexy legs held her gaze. He had sinewy muscles and a tough facial
expression. There was no fat or flabbiness on him, and she had a
feeling he stayed fit most of the time. He was hardened too. Deep
creases. His face almost craggy with so many etched lines. Maggie
found him fascinating, tough, and intriguing.
The stony glance from him made her feel strange.
She tried to imagine her appearance to him with the wet tracks
of tears drying on her face, clutching her measly weapon and all
huddled up in a ball pressed against the wall. Taking a deep breath,
she stood up on her bare feet, still shaky and jittery as more
adrenaline jolted through her. She could feel him watching her. What
did this drunken cowboy think of her? It was hard, no, impossible to
imagine.
 Maggie was short with blonde hair that covered her shoulders in
huge ringlets. A fringe of bangs were all she straightened since there
was no way to tame the rest of it. Wiping her face again to mask her
emotions, she shook her head. “I’m so glad my girls aren’t here
tonight. My oldest girl would have run in here after all of my
screaming and been scared out of her mind. I can’t imagine what
might have ensued.”
“Girls?” Mack nearly winced at the word.
“Yes. My daughters. I have three girls.”
“Right. I guess I remember seeing them now. And they’ll be livin’
here too?” His grimace wasn’t imagined.
She bristled. “Well, don’t young daughters usually live with their
mothers?”
"Right. But where are they now?”
“With their father.”
His jaw tightened. “And where’s he?”
“Not here. We’re divorcing.”
“Oh. So you’ll be livin’ here with three little girls? All alone?”
He seemed to be having trouble cataloguing this new situation.
His tone almost sounded a little threatening.
“Yeah. All alone. Why do you ask?” She didn’t try to mask her
wariness.
He shook his head. “Because we’re alone out here in the middle
of nowhere. There’s only us. This house was remodeled, but it’s still
an old house. Countless things could go wrong with it. Are you sure
it’s the best setup for you and your three daughters?”
“No, I’m not sure it’s the best setup. But I have no other place to
go at this exact moment. Please don’t concern yourself, Mr. Baker.
We won’t disturb you. Never as much as you just disturbed me.”
 Mack flung his hands up as if he were under arrest. “Fair enough.
I wasn’t tryin’ to sound like a sexist. But you need someone handy
who can quickly make any necessary repairs on a place this size and
this old.”
She snorted. “Well, my husband is no handyman. If he came with
me, he’d be no use at all.”
He nodded. “Right. Sorry. I’m just tryin’ to figure out what to do.”
“Well, how about this? You run the ranch. I live in the house.
What more is there to figure out? I and my girls will avoid the ranch
altogether. There’s nothing out there to interest any of us. I’ll call AJ
with any house problems. So—” She shrugged as she raised her
shoulders.
The cowboy rested his hands on his bare hips, sticking his elbows
out and her stupid gaze landed on his chest… and stayed there. He
was ripped, sinewy, hairy and very manly as she watched him.
Not her type.
Most of the time.
“Fine. Except—”
“Except what?” Her suspicions returned. Why all the hedging
around? And all the questions? Her business had nothing to do with
him.
“Except… When AJ made me foreman, Asher gave me a room in
his house for at least six months. I accepted and they removed the
old foreman’s trailer from the property.”
What did that mean? What trailer? “So? What are you saying?”
Her brain could not comprehend the problem.
“The old trailer was removed when Asher said I could stay in the
house while I was here. Get it? I live inside the house at Sugar Hill
Ranch. This house. The house you live in.”
 The terrible knot in her stomach made it churn. “Whoa. I live
here. With my girls. You can’t live here with us. We’re total
strangers. I can’t allow a strange man to live in the house with my
young daughters.”

M ack cringed . Her screeching protests hurt his ears. The evening
went from terrible, to tolerable, then plummeted to the worst ever.
Girls. Two blonde girls and a baby. An infant. She was only a few
months old.
Maggie Whitlock came with a ready-made family.
Images from his meeting last month with AJ Reed about the
foreman job, that could be in jeopardy now, flashed through his
mind. AJ said Maggie shrieked like a kitten caught in the jaws of a
Rottweiler, or some such comparison. Mack readily agreed after
hearing it for himself, but this time, it was justified.
AJ pointed Maggie out to Mack as they sat in Isla’s bakery. All he
saw were her blonde curls and pretty face. She looked soft and
warm, with the-girl-next-door kind of vibe.
Dressed down in shorts and a t-shirt, since it was the middle of
summer, he didn’t think too much about her. The two little girls with
blonde curls, identical to their mother’s hair, looked like clones.
Maggie was holding the newborn, who wore a little hat. Mack
thought Maggie was cute until he saw the newborn. Swiftly as that,
any interest in Maggie instantly vanished.
Mack always avoided single mothers, especially new moms, so
there was no hesitation on his part to ignore her.
Her high-pitched opposition to their situation brought him back to
the present.
 He understood her concerns and she was right. She didn’t know
anything about him. His near miss with death after invading her bed
didn’t bode well for him either. Things seemed to only get worse.
And the biggest pisser of the whole fucking situation? Mack
would be the one who got kicked out. He knew who the loser had to
be in this standoff. She’d start whining to AJ and Isla, and they’d
give the house to Maggie because she was Isla’s daughter and her
stupid grandkids needed the room, of course. The kids trumped all
his chances. Where could he go? Apparently, he was good enough to
work on the ranch but not good enough to share the house with the
Royal Princess and her regal offspring.
He hoped the Rydell River Ranch had some open positions for
employment. They provided a steady income for him for more than
fifteen years. His job with AJ came with much more freedom and a
huge raise. AJ gave Mack a real chance to build something up here.
He jumped on Sugar Hill Ranch when AJ offered him the choice of
several other locations.
In the beginning, he thought he’d be working with Asher Reed,
whom he liked and respected. The guy was cool, level-headed, and
commanding. His superior techniques in farming and ranching
allowed Mack to do his work without being micro-managed by him.
Then AJ asked Mack to take full control of the whole damn ranch.
And Asher said he could live in the house.
This gigantic house.
The mansion on the property.
His head spun and his stomach hurt. Too much damn booze the
previous night combined with the stress of possibly relocating left his
stomach and mood sour.
He felt especially sour at her. Whether it was her fault or not,
Maggie Whitlock was an unpleasant surprise to Mack, for various
reasons. It didn’t matter, Mack blamed Maggie.
He rubbed a hand over his face. “We can’t do anything about it
tonight. I’ll sleep in a room downstairs, and we’ll give AJ a call first
thing tomorrow mornin’.”
She frowned, watching him walk out of the room.
He was grateful to have enjoyed the master bedroom for the
short while that he did. There was another bedroom downstairs
through the kitchen. It was a nice bedroom, nicer than any other
place Mack ever lived, but he wished he could luxuriate in the
master bedroom a little longer. That experience turned out to be no
more than pie in the sky.
He doubted the Princess would consider moving. Did he offend
her by pointing out she needed someone handy around? He
insinuated that only a dude could fill the bill. Was he being sexist?
Probably. He was an amazing worker, a jack-of-all trades but he
would have respected absolutely anyone who possessed the same
caliber of skills that he did.
She could have offered him the best bedroom in the house, but it
never occurred to her. Being the foreman, she assumed he deserved
so much less than she. Sexism is a two-way street sometimes.
Chivalry was stupid. He never saw himself as a knight in shining
armor. He gave her the best bedroom without an argument. Yet,
there was no logical reason why she should have it instead of him.
Stomping loudly down the stairs, he passed the living room and
walked through the kitchen to a hallway, passing a small bathroom,
until he found the bedroom.
Inside was a full-sized bed. Not the huge king-sized bed that he
left in the master. This bed was big enough for one guy, sure, but
not nearly as comfortable. He sighed and wondered why it bothered
him so much. Was he just getting old?
 No.
Yes.
The consequences. He’d definitely have to find other housing.
That shrill, whiny, cute, little mom with three kids would take all the
oxygen out of the room. Anyone would choose her over him.
She had three damn kids.
He had tools, skills, and an unparalleled knowledge of horses.
Nothing else.
Aside from the king-sized bed, he never got a chance to try out
the whirlpool bathtub in the master bath either. Another missed
opportunity.
No chance of it happening now.
He punched the pillow, rolled over, and eventually passed out.
 CHAPTER 3

M AGGIE DIDN’T SLEEP MUCH after meeting her middle-of-

the-night visitor and almost stabbing him. Gritty-eyed and grumpy,
she entered the bright, shiny kitchen of Sugar Hill Ranch to start her
day.
Daylight seemed to magically transform the place. At night it was
an immense, lonely monstrosity with countless windows that seemed
to stare, or rather, glare at her menacingly. The old house groaned
and creaked as it settled. But at night, it looked like it might be
haunted.
Maggie welcomed the daylight, savoring the sight of so many
windows bathed in lemony sunshine. It looked clean and lovely. The
kitchen was mostly white with navy blue trim. The floors were dark
hardwood, possibly mahogany, that were distressed to look worn
and rough like flooring from the nineteenth century. Daisy and Asher
did a brilliant job of restoring the house while maintaining the
ambiance and character of its time. Thankfully, all the modern
essentials were now installed.
Except for the unpaved roads, sidewalks, and no people.
This house even came with its own cowboy.
She sighed while sliding the coffee carafe across the counter and
pouring the hot water she heated into a cup. The view from the
kitchen window over the sink was exquisite. The rolling hills
cascaded down the valley. On the left flowed a creek that was
partially concealed by a mile-long, swath of aspen trees. They were
shimmering and bright in the morning sun, shiny green leaves
blowing with the breeze and dappling the ghostly white trunks. Cows
peppered the fields as far as she could see. The rural landscape
soothed and comforted her and she relaxed as she gazed out the
windows.
How did she manage to end up here?
Shaking her head, she wondered how this moment in her life
came to be. Living on the outskirts of Olympia, the state capitol,
until a month ago, she was a busy, happy, stay-at-home mom,
ecstatic over the addition of her third baby. Nursing her newborn
before driving Caisley to her elementary school, and Carrie to her
pre-school, Maggie’s life was full and satisfying. The house was well-
kept, and all the meals she provided to her family were balanced
and delicious. Maggie reveled in her child care and loved to spend
hours entertaining them.
That was when her husband was still part of the family.
While staring at the grazing cows on this new morning, she
remembered she was at least fourteen miles from any other house.
She still found that more than a little unsettling and disconcerting.
It was the first time Maggie actually missed her children. She’d
never been away from them for any length of time. Then she
thought of the man who was sleeping in the bedroom down the hall.
That made her grimace.
Her husband threw her away like yesterday’s newspaper. But she
had to allow him his court-appointed time to see their kids. She felt
so out of place without even one of them to distract her. It was
something she’d have to grow used to. George, in contrast, never
had all three of them at once.
Hell, she was barely getting used to the baby’s schedule.
The third child was a game-changer. She had to admit she wasn’t
adjusting to the new situation as quickly as she would’ve liked. Her
baby was barely three months old when Maggie learned she’d
unexpectedly become a single-mother with three kids to raise.
The impact on her psyche was too much for her at first. She was
not only surprised but also confused. In an instant, her entire
foundation and life not only morphed, but totally collapsed.
Now she was living with her kids in a stranger’s house. This
beautiful dwelling was the perfect retreat for a bed and breakfast.
Its unparalleled grandeur, panoramic views, and exquisite quality of
restoration took her breath away.
She wiped hot tears from her eyes. It was all too much for her to
handle. How could she function with her children in a house like
this? How could she turn it into a home? What was she going to—
A sudden thumping interrupted her thoughts.
The cowboy must have gotten up. Cringing, she steeled herself
when she heard his heavy footsteps stomping down the hallway.
Then, she heard water trickling.
Tilting her head curiously, when she finally identified what she
heard, she was appalled. He was peeing. The bathroom was right
next to the kitchen.
“Mr. Baker!” she shrieked, “would you please shut the door?”
After a curse and a slam, the sound of peeing stopped, and she
went back to her tea.
She was sharing this lovely mansion with a vulgar heathen.
Moments later, he appeared in the hall. She wasn’t ready to
encounter him yet. It was still too early. And too awkward. The guy
was just a stranger. And unlike any other person she was used to
being around.
Hard-living and hard drinking, this cowboy seemed to advertise
his rude lifestyle.
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
 “Sure, people buying things for school. Grouchy Greenway was in,
he bought a lot of homework paper—pity the fellers in the third
grade. Ruth Binney’s scared of that ladder that rolls along—oh
bimbo, that’s my middle name. I can take a running jump and ride it
all the way to the back of the store.” He did not mention that he
played the harmonica for the girls to dance; he was a good sport and
did not tell tales out of school.
“I think Ruth and Annie Terris will miss you when you go to
Montana,” said Mr. Walton playfully.
“Such nonsense,” said Mrs. Walton. “Don’t put those ideas back
into his head.”
“I may go sooner than you think,” said Hervey.
He stood in the doorway to the dining room, pausing before
making his late evening attack on the apple barrel. A blithe, carefree
figure he seemed, his eyes full of a kind of gay madness. One
rebellious lock of hair sprawled over his forehead as he suddenly
pulled off his outlandish hat in deference to his stepmother. He never
remembered to do this as a regular duty; he remembered each time
separately, and then with lightning inspiration. He could not for the
life of him adapt his manners or phraseology to his elders.
“You know me, Al,” he said.
“Are you going to wash your face when you go in the kitchen?”
Mrs. Walton inquired.
“Sure, is there any pie?” he asked.
They heard him fumbling in the kitchen, then trudging up the
stairs.
“I think it would be just as well not to harp on Montana,” said Mrs.
Walton. “It’s odd how he hit on Montana.”
“One place is as good as another,” said Mr. Walton. “I’m glad it’s
Montana, it costs so much to get there. If he had Harlem in mind, or
Coney Island, I might worry.”
“He talks of them both,” said Mrs. Walton. “Yes, but I think his
heart is in the big open spaces, where the fare is about a hundred
dollars. If it were the Fiji Islands I’d be content.”
“Do you think he’d like to go to Europe with us next summer?”
Mrs. Walton asked. “I can’t bear to leave him alone.”
 “No, I’m afraid he’d want to dive from the Rock of Gibraltar,” said
Mr. Walton. “He’ll be safe at Temple Camp.”
“He seems to have just no balance-wheel,” Mrs. Walton mused.
“When I look in his eyes it seems to me as if they saw joys, but never
consequences.”
“Sort of near-sighted in a way, eh?”
“I do wish he had stayed in the Scouts, don’t you?”
“No, I don’t,” said Mr. Walton in a matter-of-fact way. “He didn’t
see it. Some day he’ll see it, but it won’t be because anybody tells
him. The only way Hervey can learn that a tree is high is for him to
fall out of it. That’s what I mean by his being near-sighted in a way.”
“Do you think those railroad workers are a good set?”
“Oh, they’re a good lot; good, strong men.”
“Well, I don’t care for that Hinkey, do you?”
Mr. Walton did not go into raptures over anybody from New York.
He was a good New Englander. Nor had he been carried off his feet
by the “million dollar theatre.” But being a true New Englander he
was fair in judgment and of few words, especially in the field of
criticism. His answer to this last question was to resume reading his
book.
 CHAPTER XXIV
IN THE SILENT NIGHT
In his own room Hervey opened the satchel which circumstances
had caused him to carry home. He thought that since kind fate had
brought the opportunity, he would like to give one exceedingly low
blast on a real musical instrument. He was astonished to find that
there was no musical instrument in the satchel, but a tin box
containing a small account book, a number of bills with a rubber
band around them, and an envelope containing some loose change.
He contemplated this treasure aghast. Counting the bills he found
them to be in amount a trifle over a hundred dollars. Never before
had he handled so much money. He was a little afraid of it. He shook
the sealed envelope which was fat with coins; that alone seemed to
contain a fortune. He glanced at the book and found it to full of
figures, entries of receipts and expenditures. On the flyleaf was
written:
Farrelton Merry Medley Serenaders,
Horton Manners, Treasurer.
He was greatly excited by this revelation. Here was a serious
business, a very grave consequence of a mischievous act. To be
sure, the bringing home of the satchel that did not belong to him
would have been the same in any case regardless of its contents.
But just the same the sight of so much money come into his
possession in such a way, frightened him. He had not thought of
such a thing as this. You see Hervey never thought at all—ever.
But he thought now. He had “colloped” (whatever that meant) the
treasury funds of this musical organization and he felt uneasy that he
should have to be the custodian of such a princely sum over night.
Money that did not belong to him! Would his wanton act be
construed as just harmless mischief? He had always wanted to have
a hundred dollars, but now he was almost afraid to touch it. He
replaced the box in the satchel and put the satchel under his bed.
Then he pulled it out again and put it in his dresser. Then he closed
and locked the window. When he was half undressed, he took the
satchel out of his dresser and stood holding it not knowing where to
put it. Then he put it back in the dresser.
He thought of going downstairs and telling his stepfather and
getting this awful fortune off his hands. But then he would have to tell
how he had come by it. Well, was that so very bad? Tripping a fellow
up? But would any one understand? He was very angry at the
deserter Hinkey. And he was equally angry that this dextrous little
tripping stunt should bear such consequences. It seemed to him that
even poor Horton Manners had taken a mean advantage.
He resolved that he would hunt up the musical treasurer in the
morning and return the satchel to him. He would hang on to it pretty
carefully going down the street, too. He did not know Horton
Manners, but he could find him. Of course, he would have to tell the
man that he was sorry he had tripped him up. And his explanation of
why he had carried the satchel home might sound rather queer. He
was not too considerate of the tripping treasurer. He was doomed to
a sleepless night on account of that “bimbo.” It was odd, more than it
was significant, that Hervey, who was afraid of no peril, was in panic
fear of this hundred and some odd dollars. He was just afraid of it.
Several times during that long night, he arose and groped his way
to the dresser to make sure that the satchel was safe. In the wee
hours of the night he was sorry that he had not hunted up Horton
Manners immediately after his escapade. But then he might have got
home too late. On every hand he seemed confronted with the high
cost of mischief.
He wondered if the tripping treasurer was searching for the culprit
with the aid of the police. He felt sure that no one dreamed he was
the culprit. Would they, might they not already, have traced Hinkey?
And what would Hinkey say? He had a reassuring feeling that
Hinkey could not be identified as one of the culprits. He certainly
would not tell on Hinkey. And he hoped that Hinkey would not be
incriminated and tell on him before he had a chance to return the
satchel. But surely Mr. Horton Manners had not gone home and to
bed, doing nothing about the theft of more than a hundred dollars. To
the young treasurer the affair was a plain robbery. Of course, Hervey
could not sleep when his imagination pictured the whole police and
detective force of the town aroused by a bold hold-up.
In the hour just before dawn Hervey, in his troubled half-sleep,
heard a knocking sound. Trembling all over, he pulled on his shirt
and trousers, crept stealthily downstairs and with a shaking hand
and pounding heart opened the front door.
 CHAPTER XXV
LIFE, LIBERTY⸺
No one was there. Hervey looked out upon the dissolving night;
already the familiar scene was emerging in the gray drawn—the
white rail fence, the gravel walk with its bordering whitewashed
stones, the big whitewashed tub that caught the rain-water from the
roof trough. He smelled the mist. There was no one anywhere about;
no sound but the slow dripping into the tub. Drop, drop, drop; it was
from the rain of two or three days ago. How audible it was in the
stillness! He crept upstairs again and went to bed. But he did not
sleep. He wished that dreadful satchel were off his hands. Over a
hundred dollars!
He arose in the morning before the household was astir and stole
out with his guilty burden. He knew that Kipp’s Railroad Lunch was
open all night and that it had a telephone. He would look in the
telephone book for Manners. That way he would find the address.
He thought of leaving the satchel at the Manners’ door, ringing the
bell, and running away. The recovery of the money would end the
trouble. But suppose the satchel should be stolen again—not again;
but suppose it should be stolen? Of course, it had not been stolen
before.... Just the same he was desperate to get it off his hands.
Things looked strange about the station so early in the morning;
there were so few people to be seen, and no shops open. Somehow
the very atmosphere imparted a guilty feeling to Hervey. He felt a
little like a fugitive.
He could not find the name of Manners in the ’phone book and
thus baffled, he felt nervous. For while he was losing time, the victim
and the authorities were probably not wasting any time. He thought
he would wait in the station a little while and try to decide what to do.
He knew that the family of Denny Crothers, a scout, was identified
with the big white church. There was an idea! Denny would know
where Horton Manners lived, or could soon find out. Perhaps he
might even take Denny into his confidence. It is worth considering
that in his extremity he was willing not only to use, but to trust, this
scout whose troop he had repudiated.
Well, he would sit in the station a little while (it was still very early)
and if he could not think of any other plan, he would go to Denny’s
house. It would seem strange to the Crothers, seeing him there so
early. And it would seem stranger still to Denny to be approached by
an arch enemy. But Hervey’s troubled thoughts could not formulate
any better plan.
The station was not yet open and he strolled back and forth on the
platform where a very few people were waiting for the early train—a
workman wearing a reefer jacket and carrying a dinner-pail, a little
group of girls who worked in the paper mill at Brierly, and a couple of
youngish men near the end of the platform. These two were chatting
and one of them gave a quick glance at Hervey. It seemed to him
that the talk which followed had reference to himself. He wished that
the station would open, for it was a raw fall morning; there was a
penetrating chill in the air. He wanted to sit down; he was tired of
holding that dreadful satchel, yet he would not set it down for so
much as a moment.
Suddenly, a rattling old car drove up and a brisk young man in an
overcoat got out and dragged two huge oilcloth grips to the platform.
He looked as if he might be a salesman who had completed his
assault on Farrelton. He stopped and lighted a cigarette, and while
he was doing this the two men strolled over and spoke to him. He
seemed annoyed, then laughed as he took out some papers which
the two men examined. Hervey overheard the word hardware. And
he overheard one of the men say, “K.O., Buddy.” They handed back
the papers, nodded sociably, and moved away. It seemed by the
most casual impulse that they approached Hervey. But he trembled
all over.
“You’re out early, kiddo,” said one of them. “Waiting for the train?”
Why, oh why, did he flush and stammer and answer without
thinking? “No—y-yes—I guess it’s late, hey?”
 “Guess not,” said the man with a kind of leisurely pleasantry.
“What you got in the bag, kiddo?”
“Bimbo, do I have to tell you?” Hervey demanded with the air of
one whose rights are outraged.
“Might be just as well,” said the man. “What’s your name
anyway?”
“My name is Hervey Willetts and you let go of that!” Hervey
shouted, tugging at the satchel. “You let go of that, do you hear!” He
not only pulled, but he kicked. “You let go of that or you’ll get in
trouble, you big⸺”
He was the center of a little group now; it was astonishing what a
number of persons were presently on the scene considering the few
early morning stragglers. The men put a quick end to Hervey’s ill-
considered struggle by taking the satchel while one held him firmly
by the collar. There is not a decent person in the world but rebels
against this collar grip which seems the very essence of effrontery.
Few boys so held will fail to use that potent weapon, the foot, and
Hervey, squirming, administered a kick upon his captor’s shin which
made the burly fellow wince and swear.
But it was all to no avail. They opened the satchel and noted its
contents. Hervey’s sense of indignity now quite obliterated every
other feeling. His struggles subsided into a wrathful sullenness; he
could not, or he would not, explain. He knew only that he was being
held and that fact alone aroused the demon in him. Of course, if
Walton could not manage him, and the Scouts could not win and
hold him, it was hardly to be expected that these low-bred detectives
could get closer to him than to hold him by the collar. A dog would
have understood him better. He was not the kind of boy to grab by
the collar.
These two detectives, apprised of the “robbery,” had taken their
stand at the station to note if any suspicious looking strangers were
leaving town on the first train. The boy had almost escaped, because
of his youth.
And escape was the one thought in his mind now. Twice he might
have explained; first to his good stepfather, and again to these
minions of the law. But they had the grabbing instinct and (oh, the
pity of it) had diverted his thoughts from honest restitution to a
maniac desire to beat them and baffle them, to steal indeed his
liberty if nothing else, and let the satchel with its fortune go hang! He
would steal; yes, he would forget all else now in this crazy mixup! He
would steal what was the very breath of life to him—his freedom. He
forgot the whole sorry business in this dominant thought—Horton
Manners, the satchel, everything. They had grabbed him by the
collar and he could feel the tightness in his neck.
As long as the squirrel has teeth to bite, he will bite. You cannot
tame a squirrel. The fact that he is caught stealing in your tree is
quite a secondary matter. Hervey Willetts never thought of stealing
anything in his life—but just the one thing.
Freedom!
So he did a stunt. With both hands he tore open his shirt in front,
and as he felt the loosening grip in back he sprang forward only to
feel a vice-like hand catch hold of his arm. And that hand he bit with
all his vicious might and main. Like lightning he dodged both men
and was off like a deer while the circle of onlookers stood aghast.
Around the end of the freight platform he sped and those who
hurried there beheld no sign of him—only a milk-can lying on its side
which he had probably knocked over.
Off bounded one of the detectives; the other lingered, sucking the
cut in his hand. He didn’t know much about wild life, poor man. This
was a kind of stealing he had never seen before—the only kind that
interested Hervey Willetts. The only thing that interested him—
freedom. As long as the squirrel has teeth to bite, he will bite.
You cannot tame a squirrel.
 CHAPTER XXVI
OUT OF THE FRYING PAN
But they caught him, and caged him. They found him in the camp
of railroad workers near Clover Valley where he had spent a week or
so of happy days. And they left nothing undone. They investigated
the histories of that rough and ready crew, for they were after the
man higher up, the “master mind” in back of the robbery.
They unearthed the fact that one of them, Nebraska Ned, had
been a sailor and had deserted his ship to assist in a revolution in
South America. It was then that Hervey made a most momentous
decision. He abandoned Montana quite suddenly and chose South
America as the future theatre of his adventurous career.
No master mind was discovered, not even the true master mind,
Harlem Hinkey. He was not implicated and he neglected to uphold
the chivalrous honor of Harlem by coming forward as the originator
of the prank which had such a grave sequel. In the hearing in court,
Hervey never mentioned his name. And there you have Hervey
Willetts. You may take your choice between the “million dollar
theatre” and South America.
There was a pathos about the quiet resignation, the poise and
fairness in face of all, which Mr. Walton presented in that memorable
scene at the hearing. I like Mr. Walton, good man that he was. He
sat, a tall, gaunt figure, one lanky limb across the other, and listened
without any outward show of humiliation. His tired gray eyes, edged
by crow’s-foot wrinkles singularly deep, rested tolerantly on the prim
young man, Horton Manners, who was having his day in court with a
vengeance.
And Hervey, too, looked upon the young treasurer musician with
interest, with dismay indeed, for he recognized in him the very same
young man into whose lap he had stumbled on the train coming
home after his triumphal season at helpless Temple Camp. Horton
Manners looked down from his throne on the witness box, gazing
through Hervey rather than at him, and adjusted his horn spectacles
in a way that no one should do who is under fifty years old. He held
one lapel of his coat and this simple posture, so common with his
elders, gave him somehow the absurd look of an experienced
business man of about twenty-two years.
He was not in the least embarrassed. He testified that he was
treasurer of the Farrelton Band and confessed that he played a small
harp. If he had said that he played a drum nobody would have
believed him. He said that he had lived in Farrelton but a short while
and made his home with his married sister. Then, on invitation of the
likely looking young man representing the prosecutor, he told how
Hervey had mentioned on the train that he was going to Montana
and that he was going to “collop” the money to get there.
“And when did you next see him?”
“Not till this very day; in fact—here in court.”
“When he spoke of Montana, did he ask you how much it would
cost to get there?”
“He did, and I informed him that it would cost at least a hundred
dollars. I advised him against going.” There was a slight titter of the
spectators at this.
“I think that’s all, your Honor,” said the interrogator. “Since the boy
admits he took the satchel, we need not prove that.”
“Just one moment,” drawled Mr. Walton, drawing himself slowly to
his feet. He had employed no lawyer, and would not, unless his
stepson were held for trial on the serious charge of robbery.
“You say you live with your married sister?” he drawled
ruminatively.
“Mrs. Winton C. DeGraw, yes.”
“Then your name would not be in the ’phone book?”
“Presumably not.”
“Hmph.”
“I don’t see any significance in that,” said the young prosecutor.
“I simply want to find out if my boy has told me the truth,” said Mr.
Walton. “This isn’t a trial, of course. When I have satisfied myself
about certain matters I will ask the court to hear me. One more
question, Mr. Horton—I mean Mr. Manners. Do you know the
meaning of the word collop?”
“I never investigated it.”
“Well, I have investigated it,” said Mr. Walton, with the faintest
twinkle in his eye. Hervey looked rather surprisedly at his stepfather.
“It does not mean to steal. It means to earn or to get by the
performance of a foolhardy act—what boys call a stunt. Do you know
what a stunt is?”
“I suppose when I was knocked down⸺”
“You mean tripped.”
“Well, tripped. I suppose that was a stunt.”
“Exactly,” said Mr. Walton. “That’s all it was and nothing more. I
have talked with boys and I find that if a boy jumps from a high fence
to get another boy’s jack-knife, he collops it. It’s a long time since
you and I were boys, Mr. Horton Manners,” Mr. Walton added with a
smile. “Do you really want to charge this youngster with a felony?” he
continued in a tone of quiet kindness. “Isn’t the case hard enough
without that? Did you never perform a stunt?”
Oh, Hervey Willetts, if you had no thrill in that moment for the
patient, kindly, harassed man—your friend and counselor; then
indeed was there no hope for you! But he had a thrill. For the first
time in all his life his eyes filled and brimmed over as he looked at
the man who wanted only to make sure of him, to know that he was
not dishonest; who could stand for anything save that.
“I think, your Honor,” said Mr. Walton quietly, “that this affair
simmers down to a piece of mischief with an unintendedly serious
consequence. I know, of course, about the recent affair of the fire.
My boy gave himself up because he would not be despicable. He
does not lie, much less steal. I believe the story he told me; that he
thought the satchel contained a musical instrument and that he
intended to blow it and cause panic to those gathered in the church.
He saw the police officer, thought he was watched, and carried out
the part of innocence by bringing the satchel home. It proved an
elephant on his hands, a guilty burden to one really innocent. He told
me he could not find this young man’s name in the ’phone book and
it develops that the name is not there. I have here two men who saw
him looking in the ’phone book in a lunch room near the station⸺”
The judge interrupted and surprised him. “I think we need not
prolong this,” said he. “I think the boy had no intention of committing
a serious crime, or any crime at all. I believe the story he told when
arrested. I’d like to think the consequence will prove a lesson to him.
But do you think it will?”
“I’m afraid it will not,” said Mr. Walton. “And I may say now that it is
my intention to send him somewhere where he will be under rigid
discipline. I think I may be left to deal with him.”
“Well, the charge of robbery is dismissed,” said the judge. Then he
appeared to ruminate. “But the boy is still with us and there’s the
problem. This is the second time he has been brought into court. He
kicked up quite a rumpus and bit an officer. Where is this kind of
thing going to end?” He seemed kindly and spoke rather sociably
and not as an official. “Why don’t you put him in the Boy Scouts?” he
added.
“The Boy Scouts haven’t given him a knockout blow yet,” smiled
Mr. Walton. “I’m always hoping they’ll reach him. But I suppose
they’ll have to do a stunt that pleases him. Meanwhile, I’m going to
send him to a military school. It seems like a confession of defeat,
but I’m afraid it’s the only thing to do.”
The judge turned to Hervey. “You’d better go home with your
father,” said he. “And you take my advice and get into the Boy
Scouts while there is time, or the first thing you know you’ll land in a
reformatory. So you want to go to Montana, eh?”
“Sure, they have train robbers out there?” said Hervey.
“And how do you like having a hundred dollars that doesn’t belong
to you?”
“Nix on that stuff,” Hervey said gayly.
“Yet you like train robbers.”
“Bimbo, that’s different.”
Mr. Horton Manners, still sitting like an owl on the witness stand,
gazed at Hervey with a look of utter bewilderment.
“But in South America they have rebellions,” said Hervey.
“Well, let us have no more rebellion here,” smiled the judge.
And he winked at Mr. Walton.
 CHAPTER XXVII
AT LAST
Of course, Hervey was never in any danger of being sent to prison
for robbery. As soon as he was arrested and made to tell his story,
Mr. Walton annoyed, but unruffled, saw the thing in its true light. He
went to the all night lunch room near the station and made sure that
Hervey had gone there; then he verified the boy’s statement that the
name of Manners was not in the ’phone book.
Quietly he even inquired among boys the meaning of collop. And
he learned on the highest juvenile authority that it did not signify
stealing nor an intent to steal. But Horton Manners had made the
charge of robbery and so the whole business had to be aired in
court. Mr. Walton was a man of few words; it would be interesting to
know what he really thought of Horton Manners.
As for Hervey, he quite forgot the affair within an hour of the time it
was over. He had been appalled to find himself the custodian of a
hundred and more dollars, but now that he had got it off his hands,
he went upon his way rejoicing. He never looked either backward or
forward; the present was good enough for him. It is significant that
he bore no malice toward Horton Manners. Once or twice he referred
to him as Arabella; then he forgot all about him. He could not be
bothered hating anybody; nor caring a great deal about anybody
either.
A few prominent townspeople financed the Firemen’s Carnival
and it was held after all. Shows and acts were engaged, the merry-
go-round revolved to the accompaniment of its outlandish music, the
peanut and lemonade men held form; you could see the five-legged
calf for “a dime ten cents,” and Biddle’s field presented a gala scene.
The boys of Farrelton went round and round trying to stab the brass
ring, they drank red lemonade and time after time gazed spellbound
at the five-legged calf.
Hervey did not care about seeing the five-legged calf unless he
could sneak in under the canvas fence, and he could not manage
that because of the man who kept shouting and slapping the canvas
with his stick. In common with all the other boys he was thrilled at the
sight of Diving Denniver who ascended a ladder to a dizzy height
and dived from it into a small tank directly below. Diving Denniver did
this thing twice a day, and his night performance was the more
thrilling because it was in the glare of a searchlight whose long beam
followed him in his slow ascent of the frail looking ladder and showed
him in a circle of light when he paused for one thrilling moment at the
top. He earned his living in this way, going around exhibiting at
carnivals and amusement parks, and he was the big feature of the
Farrelton carnival.
Hervey was not content simply to behold this daredevil exploit. He
saw it twice in the daytime and once at night, and he could not stand
the strain of being restricted to the enjoyment afforded a gaping
audience. That is where he differed from other boys. It was this
something in his nature that prevented him from reading boys’
books; he could not intrude into the hair-raising adventures and so
he had no use for them. The most thrilling stories were utterly dead
stuff to Hervey.
But here he could intrude. It was after he saw the night
performance that he felt the urge to penetrate to the hallowed spot
whence that enchanted daredevil emerged in his theatrically
cautious ascent of the ladder. The nature of the spectacular feat
required that it be performed at a distance from the body of the
carnival. As soon as the band started playing Up in the air mid the
stars, the long column of light was directed on the ladder which
appeared as if by magic a hundred yards or so from the thronged
area of the carnival. Every eye was then fixed with expectancy as a
white figure arose into view, moving up, up, up, to a little
surmounting platform. Then the sensational dive, after which the
pleasure seekers ate, drank and were merry again.
But Hervey could not go back to any merry-go-round after that,
and red lemonade had no solace for him. He wandered off from
those festoons of electric lights, away from the festive groups, into
the darkness. Before him, down near the edge of Biddle’s field, was
a tiny light. Soon he came to a rope fence which cut off the end of
the field from the public. Beyond this were wagons and huge cases
standing in the darkness, the packing and transporting paraphernalia
of the motley shows. In a monstrous truck that stood there the multi-
colored prancing horses of the merry-go-round would be loaded and
have a ride themselves.
On an upright of this rope fence was a sign which read
POSITIVELY NO ADMITTANCE. Hervey entered just where the sign
was placed. A hundred or so paces brought him to the holy of holies,
a little tent at the foot of the towering, slender ladder. In the darkness
its wire braces, extending away on each side to their anchorages in
the earth, could not be seen. Almost at the foot of the ladder was a
tank perhaps fifteen or eighteen feet square. Close by the tent was a
Ford sedan, and Hervey crept reverently up to it and read the words
on the spare tire cover DIVING DENNIVER. On the lower part of the
circumference was printed THREE HUNDRED FOOT DIVE. Diving
Denniver believed in advertising. In that tent lived the enchanted
mortal.
Hervey lingered in awe as a pilgrim might linger at a shrine before
entering. Then he walked rather hesitatingly to the open flap of the
tent. On a mattress which lay atop a huge red chest reclined Diving
Denniver in a bath robe. The chest had DIVING DENNIVER printed
on it, as also did a large leather grip, which bore the additional
information WONDER OF TWO CONTINENTS. If the world could
not see Diving Denniver on his dizzy perch, it at least could read
about him. Besides the makeshift divan the tent contained a rough
table formed by a red board laid on two saw horses.
On this was a greasy oil-stove and one or two plates and cups. In
his illicit wanderings, Hervey had at last trespassed through the
golden gates into heaven.
“I was walking around,” said he, rather unconvincingly.
Diving Denniver, a slim young man of about thirty, was smoking a
cigarette and looking over a magazine. It seemed incredible that he
should be thus engaged so soon after his spectacular descent.
 “Bimbo, that was some pippin of a dive,” said Hervey. Then, as
Diving Denniver made no attempt to kill him, he ventured to add, “Oh
bambino, that’s one thing I’m crazy about—diving.”
“Didn’t the cop see you?” the marvel asked.
“Leave it to me,” said Hervey. “There isn’t any cop there anyway.
Cops, that’s one thing I have no use for—nix.”
“Yere?” queried Diving Denniver, aroused to slight amusement.
“Do you—do you feel funny?” Hervey ventured as he gazed upon
the wonder of two continents.
“Where did yer git that hat?” asked the god of the temple. “What’s
all them buttons you got on it?”
“I climbed way down a cellar shaft to get one of those buttons,”
said Hervey, anxious to establish a common ground of professional
sympathy with this celebrity. “That’s the one,” he indicated, as he
handed Denniver his hat; “the one that says VOTE FOR TINNEY. He
didn’t get elected and I’m glad, because his chauffeur’s a big fool; he
chased me, but he couldn’t catch me. Some of those holes I cut out
with a real cartridge shell, like you cut cookies. I bet you feel funny,
hey?”
“Yere?” said Diving Denniver, examining the hat. “Well, do you
think yer could go back up there where the big noise is and then
come back here again—without gettin’ stopped?”
“You mean you dare me to?”
Diving Denniver roused himself sufficiently to reach over to a box
and grope in the pocket of a pair of ordinary trousers, the kind that
mortals wear. Then he tossed a quarter to Hervey. “Chase yourself
back there and get a frankfurter,” he said; “get a couple of ’em. And
don’t leave the cop see yer.”
So the wonder of two continents ate frankfurters—and scorned
cops. More than that, he and Hervey were going to eat a couple of
frankfurters together. At last Hervey felt that he had not lived in vain.
 CHAPTER XXVIII
THE LAW AGAIN
Hervey felt that he and Diving Denniver were pretty much alike
after all. The wonder of two continents beat all the boy scouts put
together. And he had now a fine precedent for his repudiation of
authority. Diving Denniver cared naught for cops and signs. Hervey
would have been glad to go into any court and cite this high
authority, confounding the powers with this frankfurter episode. He
was sorry he had not told Diving Denniver of his swimming across
the lake at Temple Camp (during rest period which was against the
rules). Instead of an honor he had received a reprimand for that. He
was a little afraid that some of the other boys would visit the wonder
in his tent, but in fact there wasn’t much danger of that. The wonder
was too much off the beaten track for most boys. Their thoughts did
not carry behind the scenes.
Hervey was now in much perplexity whether to witness the thrilling
exploit from the audience the next night or to view it from the
sanctum of the hero. In either case he intended to visit the remote
scene of enchantment with two frankfurters. He decided that he
would not demean himself by gazing at his hero with the idle throng.
He even negotiated an extra hour out from Mr. Walton in anticipation
of his second visit to the hermit of the ladder.
He could not possibly reach the place in the daytime, and besides,
he had to take up some bulbs for his stepmother the next day. For
this and other services he was to receive fifty cents. Twenty-five of
this would pay his admission to the carnival. With the other twenty-
five he intended to furnish forth a banquet of frankfurters for his hero
and brother daredevil. He could not afford to go twice in the day. He
had some thought of effecting an entrance over the high fence into
the field and having his entire fifty cents for the post-exploit feast. But
reckless as he was, he was cautious in this matter of reaching the
tent—there was so much at stake! So he decided to go respectably
in through the entrance and then cross the rope fence where the
“Positively No Admittance” sign was placed. It was not often that he
showed such a conservative spirit.
At half past eight, he found Diving Denniver strolling around in his
bathrobe outside the tent. Within, the odor of fried bacon and coffee
still lingered.
“You back again?”
“Sure, I want to see you from right here, and afterward I’m going
to go and get some more frankfurters. After you’re finished will you
let me go about ten or fifteen steps up the ladder and try it?”
Diving Denniver did not trouble himself to answer, but he ruffled
Hervey’s hair good-humoredly as he ambled about smoking his
cigarette. “Much of a crowd over there?” he asked.
“Oh bimbo, they’re all waiting. They stop dancing even when you
go up,” Hervey said.
“You’re a pretty slippery kid, all right, ain’t yer?” Denniver said.
“Ain’t there no guy up there at the rope?”
The words were scarcely out of his mouth when both he and
Hervey became aware of a policeman who had just come around the
side of the tent. But Hervey, though astonished, was not perturbed,
for he believed that the wonder of two continents would protect him.
One word from Diving Denniver and he would be safe. He even
ventured a defense himself.
“I’m going to do an errand for him,” he said.
“You can ask him yourself. So I’ve got a right to be here.”
But it appeared that it was Diving Denniver with whom the officer
had business. “Are you Charles McDennison?” he asked.
“Yere, what’s the dope?” the wonder asked, with a kind of
weariness in his voice.
Hervey was astonished, not to say shocked, that Diving Denniver
acknowledged the name of Charles McDennison.
“Let’s look at your permit,” said the officer.
Mr. McDennison entered the tent, presently emerging with a
paper.