Excerpts of Work

Legacy of Love
(Book 1 in the Burton Dale Brides series)

What in the world was a cowboy doing on her doorstep?

Dreena Barry couldn’t help staring at the most masculine example of a man she’d ever seen. From the brim of his dark hat through the soaked denim of his jacket and snug-fitting jeans to the tips of his muddy boots, he was the image of a Texas cowboy - the kind they wrote books and made films about. Almost made a girl want to leave her home behind and go west.

Maybe he was one of those line-dancing fans who’d got lost on his way to the village hall. No wonder country music was doing well, if he was an example of the kind of bloke you met.

“Can I help you?” She moved a little closer and was surprised to see the cowboy take a step back, raising his hands slightly. His deep blue eyes shifted warily.

“Uh … ma’am … I’m not dangerous, honest. I’m just looking for Magpie Grange.” He tilted his head towards her left hand.

The slow, deep drawl was like butter oozing off a warm scone. She savoured the sound of it for a moment or two, before she realised what he was talking about. The shears. Oops. No wonder he seemed nervous.

“Sorry.” She grinned and put the shears back on the wooden shelf by the door. “I was expecting young Barney from the next farm over. His idea of a joke I think. I’d asked to borrow some scissors from his mum to cut my hair and he left me these.” She was waffling. She never waffled. “I’m sure you didn’t need to know all that.”

The cowboy’s face relaxed a little and he dropped his hands. Belatedly Dreena wondered if he carried a gun. But there didn’t seem to be one of those low-slung, bullet-laden belts around his lean hips.

“Is this Magpie Grange?” The sexy voice interrupted her meandering thoughts. “They said in the village it was somewhere round here.”

Now she was confused.

“Yes, but we don’t do line-dancing.” She glanced at his luggage. “Or bed and breakfast.”

His smile was slow in coming, but when it did, it made her pulse do a toe-tap and slide. “Don’t need either of those, ma’am, though I am fixing to stay awhile.” He held out his hand. “The name’s Scott Devlin and I believe this is my place.”

The last thing she’d expected was Patrick’s son.

A chill went through her, one that had nothing to do with the dreariness of the February evening. She’d been assured he wouldn’t come. Had banked on it.

Fine time for him to show up. What was the saying - a day late and a dollar short? Patrick was dead. This Scott should have made the effort sooner if he was expecting to be welcomed like the prodigal son. And what made him think this was his place? If he even was Patrick’s son.

“How do I know you’re really Scott Devlin?” She ignored the proffered hand and peered at him through the misty glow of the overhead lamp, trying to spot a resemblance to the man she’d loved like a father. The man who’d rescued her.

Patrick had only had one picture of himself with his son and that was black and white. Could this be the serious little dark-haired boy all grown up?

That both men had deep blue eyes and a strong jaw line wasn’t enough. Where Patrick was short and stocky, this cowboy was tall and lean. From the muscles beneath his wet jacket and jeans, there was no doubting Scott was a genuine cowboy. But was he the right cowboy?

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a navy blue booklet. His passport. Dreena took it off him and opened it in search of a photo.

“I’m not sure my picture is going to help. Darned thing makes me look like a convict.”

His self-deprecating grin convinced her. That, and the unmistakable dimple on his left cheek. He was Patrick’s son. The realisation sent a trickle of ice down her spine. How would this affect her plans?

“You’d better come in.” Dreena didn’t bother to sound welcoming as she handed him his passport and stepped back from the door. “I don’t know what you’re expecting, but I’ve not been here long, so most of the stuff is in boxes. There’s a bit of furniture here and there, but not a lot.”

The cowboy picked up his case and duffel bag and stepped into the hallway. She shut the door behind him with a firm click. Dreena was pleased to see he removed his muddy boots and left them on the mat. She wasn’t quite so happy with the way her body reacted to his proximity.

“I’m not expecting a whole lot other than a roof over my head - somewhere to wash, eat and sleep until I work out what’s what.”

“You’re planning to stay? Here?” Well of course he is, dodo. He didn’t come all the way from Nowhere, Texas for a cup of tea.

“Uh … yes, ma’am.” He looked at her suspiciously. “I sent a fax to that lawyer, Mr Watson, before I left. I was told y’all would be expecting me.”

“Well, I wasn’t.” She was going to have words with Arthur.

“You are the housekeeper, aren’t you?”

Irritation began to melt the chill she’d felt since learning his identity.

“No, I’m not the housekeeper.” She enunciated carefully so there’d be no misunderstanding. “I’m Dreena Barry. Patrick Devlin was my step-father and Magpie Grange is my place.”

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