Coming Home To Texas

Ellie and the Lawman

Leaving behind her big city life, Ellie Buckton can’t wait to return to Blue Thorn Ranch—the place she’s always considered home, and the perfect place to mend her wounded heart. But she’s unprepared for the instant sparks she feels with the town’s new lawman, Nash Larson. Strong and steady Nash doesn’t want any attachments in his temporary posting. Not with the troubled teens he and Ellie are drafted to work with. And especially not with Ellie or the undeniable feelings she inspires within him. Nash likes to play by the book. But law and order can’t always rule when love is concerned…

“Are you sure you need to say no? Maybe you’re just scared to say yes.

Gran always says scared isn’t a good enough reason to say no to something that might be good.”

“Then your grandmother is a stronger person than I am.”

What Nash did, helping those kids in LA, must have taken so much courage and compassion. It couldn’t all be gone just because one kid betrayed him. Then again, wasn’t she hiding out here in Martins Gap because of betrayal, too? “What if what you really need is to prove to yourself you still can see the good in kids like that? What’s the worst that could happen?”

He shook his head and gave a dark, low laugh. “I could get shot again. And this time the kid may not miss.”

“Cowboys and Indians,” she said, remembering his earlier comment that now had such a different edge to it.

“Cops and robbers,” he said, his features showing a hint of humor.

“Cars and knitting. It’s an idea so crazy it just might work.”

“It probably won’t work,” Nash said. “But maybe I ought to try anyway.”

ALLIE PLEITER, an award-winning author and RITA® Award finalist, writes both fiction and nonfiction. Her passion for knitting shows up in many of her books and all over her life. Entirely too fond of French macarons and lemon meringue pie, Allie spends her days writing books and avoiding housework. Allie grew up in Connecticut, holds a BS in speech from Northwestern University and lives near Chicago, Illinois.

Coming Home to Texas

Allie Pleiter

www.millsandboon.co.uk

He has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted...to bestow on them a crown of beauty instead of ashes, the oil of joy instead of mourning, and a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair.

—Isaiah 61:1–3

For Amanda

For all she is becoming

Acknowledgments

Special thanks again to Beverly Brown

and Donnis Baggett, the owners of the Lucky B Bison Ranch in Bryan, Texas, who continue to support me with information, hospitality and friendship. Thanks also to Ron and Theresa Miskin at the Buffalo Wool Company for explaining to me all about bison fiber.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

About the Author

Title Page

Bible Verse

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Dear Reader

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

Deputy sheriff Nash Larson walked up to the small red car with Georgia plates and waited for the woman to roll down her car window. “License and registration, please.”

The woman gave a loud sniff as she fumbled through her handbag and glove compartment. “Sure,” she gulped out in a wobbly voice. A cryer. Why did women always think crying was the way to ditch a speeding ticket?

Why? The lead weight in Nash’s stomach told him it was because it worked. This woman was driving too fast for a rainy night in the middle of nowhere, with out-of-state plates, way too late at night, and he still felt the compulsion to be nice rather than read her the riot act, the way she probably deserved. At least she was smart enough to keep her doors locked and not roll down her window until he showed her his badge. Alone on a Texas back road at 11:45 p.m. was no time for Southern hospitality. “Do you know how fast you were going?” he inquired.

“I should have been paying attention.” The lilt of her Southern drawl, combined with that thing that happened to women’s voices when they cried, pulled even more reluctant sympathy from him. “I was upset,” she added, as if that needed explaining.

Nash looked at the license. Ellen Buckton took a nice photo and had a pretty smile—in other words, her photo looked nothing like her current disheveled and tearful appearance. “Maybe tonight wasn’t the best night to drive so late, Ms. Buckton.”

“Miss,” she corrected, her eyes brimming over with tears. “I’m sorry.” She reached for a tissue from the nearly empty box on the seat next to her—a seat mounded with used, crumpled tissues. She’d been crying for the past hundred miles from the looks of it. “I just wanted to get home.” That last word trailed off in a small sob.

The plates and license were from Georgia. “You’re a long way from home, Miss Buckton. Everything okay?”

Nash wanted to whack his own forehead. Well, that was a foolish question. The woman is far from home crying and you ask if everything’s okay?