A Cowboy For Clementine

Enormous, renegade cows were roaming around Clem’s ranch, trampling the land, hiding in crevasses, growing healthier, heavier and more territorial with each passing day. Clem had kicked herself a thousand times for not dong better research before buying the cows. Not that it mattered. She was stuck with them now. She’d had five freelance outfits look at the cows. Each and every one had refused to take on the job of rounding them up. Finally she begged the last outfit for a name. There had to be someone who could help her.

The cowboys exchanged glances. One shrugged and another kicked at the dust. Then a third said, “Ma’am, just take your losses and get a real job.”

Clem could have laughed at the irony. This was the only job she was qualified for. She glared at them. “Tell me who can help me.”

The tall one eventually said, “Can’t vouch for him. He and his partners did some jail time. Even if you could find him, he won’t help.”

“Why not?” Clem’s voice was curt.

“Retired.”

“Give me his name,” she’d begged. She wasn’t going to let an itty-bitty complication like retirement get in her way.

With a sigh, the cowboy told her. “Dexter Scott. Trust me, ma’am. You’d be better off if you didn’t find him.”

He was probably right, but Clem had two choices—work with Dexter Scott or lose her family’s ranch.

Dear Reader,

When starting this book, I was plagued by doubts. After all, what would a suburban girl like me know about cowboys and feral cows? However, as I searched the deeper recesses of my mind, I realized that during the late seventies while I was swallowing ten to fifteen Harlequin novels a week, I was also drinking generous doses of good old-fashioned Westerns.

It was not the guns or the intrigues that drew me to those rough-and-tumble books of the West, but the lonely, isolated men who were so often reluctant heroes. In my mind, I always added a heroine for the hero, the one person who could unlock the gates to a cowboy’s heart and soul.

Dexter Scott is a man with many gates, some locked, some not. But they all serve the same purpose—self-protection. When Clementine Wells manages to get through every gate he has, Dexter realizes that love eliminates the need for gates.

Please join my recalcitrant hero and determined heroine as they discover that independence is not a good reason to miss out on love. And that sometimes, there’s greater independence in a loving relationship and only pressing loneliness without it.

Sincerely,

Susan Floyd

P.S. I love to hear from my readers. You can reach me at: P.O. Box 2883, Los Banos, CA 93635 or via e-mail on my author’s page at www.superauthors.com.

I want to express my deep appreciation

to the entire Menefee family. Colleen and Jerry, your generosity made this book what it is. Scott and Chu’an (and little Kate, in utero) thank you for the evening of feral cow viewing and my first taste of venison jerky. Jacob, may your Shuckabur live on always.

And special thanks to Anne and Jack Newins,

facilitators extraordinaire (even though I couldn’t make the hero Ishmael).

This book is dedicated to my mother,

June Ishimatsu Kimoto who in the last year has proven to be one of the most courageous women I know. Thank you, Mom.

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Los Banos, California, late January

CLEMENTINE WELLS STOPPED her horse, Archie, on a steep slope and stared straight ahead, trying to peer through the brush that covered most of the pastureland on her family’s 16,000-acre ranch. She thought she was mistaken, that she was seeing some kind of mirage.

She had known that she’d been duped, known that the man who’d sold her all the calves at a greatly reduced price saw inexperience tattooed across her forehead. She’d felt like a monster, branding those little calves with just nubbins of horns on their heads. Nothing big enough to even trim. Some of them had looked as if they’d been snatched from their mothers a mite too soon. She’d worried all through November she’d been sold runts that would be devoured by the cougars or would die in the cold. So she’d spent much of her time watching them, riding up to check on their progress and their growth. When her parents had come for Christmas, her father’d been impressed. He’d clasped his big hand on her shoulder and squeezed, telling her she’d done a good job, and she’d basked in the glow of his praise.

Her parents had left two days ago, and she’d ridden into the mountains today to check again. At first, her fears had seemed confirmed. The cows weren’t where they were supposed to be at this time of year. She’d trailed endless paths hoping that at least a few had survived the December storms that usually brought them in closer to the ranch. Now, as she spotted the cow she and her dogs had spent the past half hour tracking, she realized she’d been worried for nothing.