Page 12 of When a Cowboy Falls Hard
“Spence’s Grandma Lucy used to live there. The Bridgers are leasing the space to the McLintocks.”
“So they’re business partners?”
“And friends, which is why that new book would be a good gift. But he might have it or someone else might have already bought it for him. Hang on. Let me call Raquel. She’ll know.” He paused and pulled out his phone.
Zinnia grabbed the chance to look around. She’d been focused on Raquel and Monty when they’d driven in — well, mostly Monty. Then she’d been totally absorbed in shoeing those incredible horses. This was her first chance to survey the area.
The main house resembled others where she’d done farrier work—low slung with a long front porch and a couple of chimneys indicating they had at least two wood-burning fireplaces.
The outbuildings were familiar, too. The main barn, which she loved, had a nostalgic hip-roofed silhouette. The other two were more pedestrian, one for the wild horses Luis brought in for training and potential adoption, and the other for ranch machinery. A large pasture and a couple of corrals were also standard for a Montana ranch.
But nothing had prepared her for the rest. To her left, at the far end of the road leading into the ranch, stood an old-fashioned bunkhouse painted an eye-popping fuchsia.
Closer to her on the same side of the road were two almost identical Spanish casitas, complete with arched windows and low walls surrounding a front patio.
A path that wound behind them led to a large building that could be the indoor riding arena her uncle had described.
Facing the main barn again, she studied the house a few yards behind it. She wouldn’t call it a casita. Too big for that. More like a small version of a hacienda, which also had a low wall around a front patio.
On a hill behind it perched a Swiss chalet. Of course. Why not? Not far away a cozy cottage right out of a storybook was tucked into the landscape. A few yards to the left a log cabin peeked through the pines.
“Getting a sense of the place?”
She turned back to her uncle. “It’s mind-boggling. Did you say Spence built all these houses?”
“And loved doing it. When the kids got old enough, they helped.”
“Why so many, and why so varied?”
“It’s a long story. Get one of the Bridgers to tell it. They’ll do a better job than me.”
“Okay, but do you know why the bunkhouse is fuchsia?”
“Because that’s where the kids’ grandma and three great-aunties live. They call themselves the Dazzling Damsels and that’s their dorm.”
“Why on earth do they live in a?—”
“Like I said, it’s a long story best told by one of them.” He tucked his phone away and set off for the ranch house.
“All right.” She’d ask a Bridger about the house, but not the Bridger who made her pulse dance the cha-cha. “Does Monty already have the new book?”
“No, ma’am. Raquel had planned to buy it for him but she’s fine with us doing it, so we’re all set for a gift.”
“Awesome. Thanks.” She wanted to ask which of the dwellings, if any, was Monty’s, but that would be a tell. Didn’t matter, anyway. She’d never be inside it.
As she climbed the porch steps, the aroma of vegetable soup tickled her nose and the sound of a man’s laughter stole her breath. The man didn’t have to be Monty. Family members often laughed the same way. But somehow she knew it was him. She loved the happy sound. Wanted to hear it again.
Her uncle rapped on the front door and opened it. “We’re here, ready or not.”
“Come on in,” Raquel’s voice came from the same direction as the mouthwatering scent of warm soup. “It’s only the four of us, so we’re eating in the kitchen.”
“That suits me just fine.” Uncle Graham left his cap on the coat tree and gestured for her to go through the door to her right.
She walked into the sunniest kitchen she’d ever seen and maybe the only one with a breathtaking view.
“Wow.” Her exclamation covered both the broad-shouldered cowboy setting placemats on the long trestle table and the towering majesty of Mt. Powell through the windows at the far end of the kitchen. Cowboys and mountains. What a combo.
He was hatless. A faint crease denting his thick brown hair made him more human, more approachable. Not necessarily a good thing.
