LITMIR.BIZ

      Joan Marlow Golan

      Senior Editor, Silhouette Desire

      The Way to a Rancher’s Heart

      Peggy Moreland

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      PEGGY MORELAND

      published her first romance with Silhouette in 1989 and continues to delight readers with stories set in her home state of Texas. Winner of the National Readers’ Choice Award, the Golden Quill, the Texas Gold and a finalist for the prestigious RITA Award, Peggy’s books frequently appear on the USA Today and Waldenbooks bestseller lists. When not writing, she enjoys spending time at the farm riding her quarter horse, Lo-Jump. She, her husband and three children make their home in Florence, Texas. You may write to Peggy at P.O. Box 1099, Florence, TX 76257-1099.

      This book is dedicated to my editor, Lynda Curnyn,

      with heartfelt thanks for all the guidance and support

      offered to me…and my apologies for forcing her

      to learn a new language, Texas-ese. Thanks, Lynda!

      Contents

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      One

      There was tired, then there was tired, the boot-shuffling, butt-dragging, bleary-eyed kind of exhaustion that followed too many nights without enough sleep and too many days filled with nonstop activity. Jase Rawley’s current physical state fell into that latter category.

      After parking his semi-rig and trailer filled with stocker calves he’d hauled from Kansas to Texas beside the loading chute attached to his corral, he trudged wearily through the inky darkness to his equally dark house in the distance. Once inside, he toed off his cowboy boots by the kitchen door, left them there for easy access the next morning, then tugged his shirttail from the waist of his jeans and headed down the hall to the master bedroom, unbuttoning his shirt along the way. At the side of his bed, he stripped off the shirt, leaned to set the alarm on the bedside table for 6:00 a.m., then, all but limp with exhaustion, fell face-first across the king-size bed. He was instantly asleep.

      Three hours later he awakened to the irritating electronic beep of his alarm clock. Groaning, he made a fist, whacked it against the alarm, then buried his face against the mattress again. He inhaled deeply, wearily, weighing the pros and cons of putting off unloading the calves for a few more hours. But the rich, nutty smell of coffee brewing had him slowly lifting his head again.

      Bracing his palms against the mattress, he lifted himself higher, sniffing the air. “Sis,” he murmured almost reverently as he heaved himself from the bed and to his feet, “you’re a saint.”

      With his nose lifted high like a radar device, guiding him to the coffeepot, he padded his way down the hallway, still dressed in the jeans and socks he’d slept in. A yawn took him as he stepped into the kitchen, and he closed his eyes, giving in to it, as he passed by the island, rubbing a wide hand over his burly chest. “Mornin’,” he grumbled as he drew a bead on the coffeemaker and headed for it.

      “Good morning. Would you like your eggs fried or scrambled?”

      He froze at the question, then slowly turned, focusing in on the woman who stood on the opposite side of the island calmly rolling out biscuits. Above a pert nose sprinkled with a light spattering of freckles, bright, cheery green eyes met his, while full lips curved upwards in a not-normal-for-this-time-of-morning smile. Brown hair, the color of roasted chestnuts, spilled over slim shoulders and framed an oval, youthful face…a face that looked nothing like his sister’s.

      “Who the hell are you?” he asked in dismay.

      Her smile widened and she wiped a palm across the bib of her apron as she rounded the island. “Annie Baxter,” she said and held out the hand, now free of flour. “I’m your new housekeeper and nanny.”

      He stared at the flour streaks her hand had left on the apron’s bib, the T-shirt and cut-off jeans the apron didn’t quite hide, then moved his gaze farther down to the length of long, tanned legs beneath the apron’s hem, the bare feet, the toenails painted a putrid shade of blue. Slowly he lifted his gaze back to hers, without making a move to accept the hand she offered. “Housekeeper?” he repeated dully.

      Her smile turned curious. “Well, yes. Your sister hired me. Penny Rawley?” she offered helpfully, as if hearing his sister’s name might prod his memory. “You were aware that she planned to hire someone, weren’t you?”

      He gulped, then swallowed, remembering, vaguely, a conversation with his sister a couple of weeks earlier in which she’d told him she was moving out. He seemed, too, to remember her saying something about hiring someone to take her place in his home. But he hadn’t taken his sister seriously. Had thought she was bluffing. She had more than once over the years. Penny had always lived with him. Had ever since their parents had died more than fifteen years before. He hadn’t thought she’d really

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