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Acknowledgments and sincere thanks
No book is the act of one person, and this one is no excep- tion. Thank you to my son, Luke Blodgett of Angelo Gordon in New York City, for his expertise regarding Colt’s life, work, and position in Lower Manhattan. Hedge-fund managers don’t often talk about their work, so having raised one gave me an inside look at the workings of big finance. Luke, I appreciate your help, your time, and the coffee! I love you, kid! To Shannon Marchese of WaterBrook Multnomah for her straightforward humor and the opportunity to give my cowboys — and me! — a chance. This delightful series of books wouldn’t have happened without her input and her seal of approval.
To the Washington Cattlemen’s Association in Ellensburg, Washington, for their excellent website and referenced websites that helped formulate initial research, and to Mary and Ivan Connealy for their firsthand knowledge of running a solid cattle operation. Thank you for always answering whatever questions I might have. I love coming to visit the cows!
To Cle Elum for being just the kind of town I wanted Gray’s Glen to be: close-knit, part of the whole, and welcoming to strangers. We loved stopping in various shops, and the maple bars at the bakery won my heart!
Huge thanks also to Natasha Kern for her candid observations about Central Washington: climate, flora, fauna . . . all the little things a person knows about her place.
And to Lissa Halls Johnson whose candid advice helped shape and define the final product so beautifully.
And a final and righteously sincere knuckle bump to God, the Ever Present, the Most High, who granted me the talent . . . and the time . . . to see this happen. Well played, my Lord!
ONE
The sharp metallic click meant one thing.
Someone had a gun pointed in Colt Stafford's general direction.
He sucked a breath and realized two other things. First, these might be the last two thoughts he'd ever have-and that would be a downright shame, wouldn't it?
Second?
It was clear he'd been away from the Double S too long when he couldn't tell what kind of gun it was by the sound of the mechanism. Was it his father's Ithaca Deerslayer or the vintage Remington short barrel?
He put his hands high, figuring this was about as good a wel come as he could expect after being gone nearly nine years. "I'm unarmed and this is my home. Kind of. Who in the name of all that's good and holy in the West has me at gunpoint?"
An explosive stream of Spanish brought him two more thoughts. The person speaking wasn't his sick father- the man he'd come home to help. It was a woman, and not too tall gauging from the direction of the Hispanic tongue-lashing being laid down.
He turned his head slightly.
Backlit from the foyer light, her features were hard to make out.
Her silhouetted frame said she was petite and most assuredly feminine.
The gun, however, wasn’t.
“I’m Colt Stafford, Sam’s son, and I told Dad I was coming home to help. Whoever you are, let me turn around, and you can see who I am.”
She paused, then issued a command. “Darse la vuelta.”
Which he would have gladly obeyed if he’d taken Spanish in high school and understood her request. But he hadn’t. He’d taken Latin because he thought it sounded cool to say he’d taken Latin. That was only one of many stupid moves he’d made over the years. “I have no idea what that means.”
Would his confession earn him a bullet? And where was his father? Why hadn’t Sam Stafford stormed down the massive rustic front staircase and welcomed his prodigal son with a nice beef barbecue after all this time? Didn’t anyone around here read the Bible anymore?
Dude, your mother was the churchgoing member of the family. Dad? Not so much. The whole prodigal’s great return thing might be lost on him.
“Turn around.”
That he understood. The thick accent disappeared with the deliberate shift to English, leaving only a hint of Latina. He turned slowly, respecting the size of the weapon and the temerity of the woman holding it.
“Turn on that light behind you. Please.”
Please? Did she just add “please” to her direct order, as if she might believe him? He’d hold back on the humor of the situation because either the Remington or the Ithaca would make short work of him at this range, and his pricey wardrobe was about the only accessible tan- gible he had left after years of hard work and financial ladder climb- ing. Bullets rarely hit seams, and fixing a hole in the middle of his lapel would be impossible, even for the best Manhattan tailors.
He hit the switch but kept his focus on the woman. When soft light flooded the area, his heart hit pause.
Untraditional beauty.
He wasn’t sure what he expected. Maybe some aged abuela working to earn money for her family. Streams of Central American immigrants came north to work the vast fruit orchards of Washing- ton. Some stayed, sending money back home to help those still south of the border. His smattering of Spanish came from working along- side some of those laborers as a kid.
But the woman facing him was nobody’s grandmother. Angular planes lent a hint of Native American attributes to her exquisite face, perfectly sculpted brows deepened the angles, and eyes the color of dense, dark smoke appraised him.
And in that gaze? She found him lacking. So what else was new?
In Stafford-speak, you toed the line and lived for the ranch. Sam Stafford was an all-or-nothing guy, and Colt had broken the rules. Now it was time to eat crow, humble pie, and anything else they served prodigals these days since the fatted calf refused to make an appearance. “I’m Colt.” He gestured toward the picture on the far wall. “I’m on the right, next to Nick and behind Trey.”
“I’m not blind.” She stared hard at him and slowly lowered the gun. “You have been away many years and have no use for your father. This I know well.”
“Good.” A quick chill climbed his back. “That saves us the customary exchange of pleasantries. And you are?”
“Angelina Morales.” She said the name with unusual crispness. “I am your father’s housekeeper and cook.” Her tone softened, but her expression stayed tough. “I help keep things running smooth. And” — she sighed, and her posture said she didn’t like admitting this next part — “I am sorry I pointed a gun at you. It’s late and I heard a strange noise.”
“I tried calling. No one answered.”
She flushed. “I was away this evening. The men were off, and your father is having tests in the hospital. I stopped to see him, then ran errands in town.”
“Hospital? How bad is he?” Colt moved closer and relieved her of the gun. He unloaded the Ithaca bent barrel, his father’s favorite, then set it back above the fireplace, old-style. “He told me he’s been losing strength, but my father isn’t exactly an old man.” He studied Angelina’s face. “Is he going to be okay?”
“He’s not okay. You know he is a private man and will want to tell you things himself.” She motioned toward the stairs of the classic western home, her expression serious. “I haven’t dusted your room in two weeks or washed the blankets in a long time. I apologize for this, and I will take care of it in the morning, but for now it will have to do.”
“I spent a lot of years riding herd. Sometimes I fell into that bed dog-tired and plenty dirty. A little dust and unwashed blankets are nothing.”
Doubt and disparagement filled her eyes as she scanned his designer suit. “Dog-tired is still fine. Sleeping dirty in a clean bed is not.” Bossy. Antagonistic. Well, he wouldn’t be in the house enough to have her tough-girl attitude bother him. And if he wanted to fall asleep dirty at the end of a long day riding herd or freeze-branding beef, he’d do it.
He started for the stairs, realized he was reacting more like a five- year-old than a thirty-five-year-old, and turned. “Thank you, Angelina. For not shooting me and for your good care for my father.”
Disbelief claimed her features at his lame attempt to man up, and in that one look he knew Angelina Morales wasn’t easily impressed by anything, which was probably why she was able to put up with his father.
Like you’re the easygoing one of the family? Yeah. Right, cowboy.
Reality hit home as he climbed the stairs with the small carry-on bag he’d brought into the house. He would bring in the meager bal- ance of his possessions tomorrow. For tonight, this was enough.
He’d come back west tired, disillusioned, and filled with self- doubt, but at least he had a place to come back to. A lot of his Wall Street associates were out on the street after this latest market correc- tion and Ponzi-style fiasco. He should be counting his blessings, even though he had an option most guys in New York wouldn’t under- stand. The chance to mount up and man up.
God’s timing is eternal and perfect.
His mother would have said that. She’d have been wrong, but she’d have said it, and he would have believed her because Christine Stafford was honest and kind and exuded warmth like the golden rays of angled sunlight on a late-August afternoon.
He lost her thirty-one years ago. He was four years old, just start- ing preschool.
He remembered being scared, so scared that first day of school. The building, big and brown. All those windows. People every- where. Kids running, playing, laughing. He wondered how he could get out of there, but his mother took his hand, led him to a quiet corner, and squatted low. “Trying new things is good for us, Colt. It makes us stronger, like eating spinach when we’d rather have candy.”
“I don’t like spinach.”
“But you tried it and made me so proud.” She’d leaned in and kissed his cheek. “And now it’s time to try this.”
He’d sighed and looked around, and she’d waited for him to make the decision. She’d put it in his hands. That was another thing to miss once she was gone. His father wasn’t the make-your-own- decision type. Sam Stafford’s motto was “my way or the highway,” with the guts and grit that built a multimillion-dollar beef enterprise while others around him failed.
He’d looked up at his mother and whispered, “I’ll try it, Mom. I
promise.”
She kissed his cheek, ruffled his hair, and slipped out.
He never saw her again. A semi carrying an unbalanced load spun out of control on the two-lane. The ensuing crash killed three people — including Christine Stafford.
He’d kept his promise. He’d tried school, and he did well. Over the years he’d tried a lot of things and done well until a few weeks before when the market nosedived and abject failure found him. He’d have been all right if that was all that happened. The hedge funds he governed were designed to withstand market pressures, but when the stock market slide revealed a mammoth Ponzi scheme run by a major Wall Street investment firm — a firm he’d trusted with a massive amount of money — his investment in that fund crashed along with a lot of people’s money. Good people, normal folks who trusted his expertise. He’d failed them. He’d failed himself.
And now he was back in the West, humbled by circumstance, not choice. The Manhattan DA had some of his assets in lockdown, some were in critically hit market funds, and some had disappeared in Tomkins’s well-shielded pyramid structure.
God’s timing, eternal and perfect? What a joke.
But he’d made that promise to his mother, to try things as needed. Right now he could use a job, and his father needed hands on deck. Colt was a numbers guy, and the mathematics of the situa- tion wasn’t lost on him. In the end it all came down to simple equa- tions. One plus one equaled two.
Unless the human factor messed things up. And in Gray’s Glen, Washington?
That was entirely possible.
“Slick City Boy Comes Home.” Angelina didn’t find the imaginary headline amusing as she strode toward her first-floor suite beyond the state-of-the-art kitchen and washing facilities. The extended hallway gave her just enough distance to provide space and privacy to be her own person, even on Stafford land.
She walked into her room and closed the door, trying to sort old memories from current concerns.
You pulled a gun on Colt Stafford.
Holding Sam’s son at gunpoint fell neatly into the realm of cur- rent concerns. What was she thinking?
Her heart hammered as she crossed the room. She listened to the messages on the house phone, and there it was. “This is Colt. I’m on my way from the airport. They switched my flight, so I’ll be there tonight instead of in the morning.”
Information that would have been helpful thirty minutes ago. How could she have been so stupid?
Not stupid, her conscience argued. Your training kicked in, plain and simple. Launching into Spanish, though? That was a blast from the past, chica.
Her ability to deepen or lose her accent had worked in her favor
on the Seattle police force but was not helpful now. Detective Mary Angela Castiglione could role-play at will, but here at the Double S, Angelina Morales should be unchanging — a simple housekeeper who liked to cook, clean, and sew tiny gowns for grieving parents.
What if Colt’s father took offense at her actions? What if he fired her?
Sam loves you. He treats you like a daughter, and he knows the truth. He knows you; he knows your past. He understands. He’ d never let you go.
The mental reassurance sounded nice, but then she’d never pulled a gun on one of Sam’s sons before.
First time for everything. Being stubborn, Staffords, and male, they probably half expect it.
The truth of that almost made her smile. The cold, hard look on
Colt Stafford’s face erased the temptation.
She’d dealt with his kind before. Cool, calculating men in de- signer suits with a head for finance and a heart for gambling. Lust for money and power had taken too much from her already.
Never again.
She’d brought her mother and son inland and nailed her two familial objectives: safety and obscurity. Her mother was discontented but safe, and her precious son was protected. She’d found an incomplete peace in Gray’s Glen, a small western town nestled in a broad valley of rolling fields. It was a respite from the dark crimes of city streets.
Managing the ranch house had been the ideal solution to myriad problems, but she may have ruined everything by grabbing that gun.
Anyone who takes offense at a woman defending herself isn’t worth the bother, her conscience chided. The gun is above the fire- place for a reason. This isn’t Country Décor 101. It’s the Old West, a century removed, but still a place where it’s not only okay to own a gun, it’s downright smart to know how to use it.
She’d known how to use a gun long before she moved here. Anyone brought up by Isabo and Martín Castiglione understood the basics of self-defense. Raised...
Revue de presse :
No book is the act of one person, and this one is no excep- tion. Thank you to my son, Luke Blodgett of Angelo Gordon in New York City, for his expertise regarding Colt’s life, work, and position in Lower Manhattan. Hedge-fund managers don’t often talk about their work, so having raised one gave me an inside look at the workings of big finance. Luke, I appreciate your help, your time, and the coffee! I love you, kid! To Shannon Marchese of WaterBrook Multnomah for her straightforward humor and the opportunity to give my cowboys — and me! — a chance. This delightful series of books wouldn’t have happened without her input and her seal of approval.
To the Washington Cattlemen’s Association in Ellensburg, Washington, for their excellent website and referenced websites that helped formulate initial research, and to Mary and Ivan Connealy for their firsthand knowledge of running a solid cattle operation. Thank you for always answering whatever questions I might have. I love coming to visit the cows!
To Cle Elum for being just the kind of town I wanted Gray’s Glen to be: close-knit, part of the whole, and welcoming to strangers. We loved stopping in various shops, and the maple bars at the bakery won my heart!
Huge thanks also to Natasha Kern for her candid observations about Central Washington: climate, flora, fauna . . . all the little things a person knows about her place.
And to Lissa Halls Johnson whose candid advice helped shape and define the final product so beautifully.
And a final and righteously sincere knuckle bump to God, the Ever Present, the Most High, who granted me the talent . . . and the time . . . to see this happen. Well played, my Lord!
ONE
The sharp metallic click meant one thing.
Someone had a gun pointed in Colt Stafford's general direction.
He sucked a breath and realized two other things. First, these might be the last two thoughts he'd ever have-and that would be a downright shame, wouldn't it?
Second?
It was clear he'd been away from the Double S too long when he couldn't tell what kind of gun it was by the sound of the mechanism. Was it his father's Ithaca Deerslayer or the vintage Remington short barrel?
He put his hands high, figuring this was about as good a wel come as he could expect after being gone nearly nine years. "I'm unarmed and this is my home. Kind of. Who in the name of all that's good and holy in the West has me at gunpoint?"
An explosive stream of Spanish brought him two more thoughts. The person speaking wasn't his sick father- the man he'd come home to help. It was a woman, and not too tall gauging from the direction of the Hispanic tongue-lashing being laid down.
He turned his head slightly.
Backlit from the foyer light, her features were hard to make out.
Her silhouetted frame said she was petite and most assuredly feminine.
The gun, however, wasn’t.
“I’m Colt Stafford, Sam’s son, and I told Dad I was coming home to help. Whoever you are, let me turn around, and you can see who I am.”
She paused, then issued a command. “Darse la vuelta.”
Which he would have gladly obeyed if he’d taken Spanish in high school and understood her request. But he hadn’t. He’d taken Latin because he thought it sounded cool to say he’d taken Latin. That was only one of many stupid moves he’d made over the years. “I have no idea what that means.”
Would his confession earn him a bullet? And where was his father? Why hadn’t Sam Stafford stormed down the massive rustic front staircase and welcomed his prodigal son with a nice beef barbecue after all this time? Didn’t anyone around here read the Bible anymore?
Dude, your mother was the churchgoing member of the family. Dad? Not so much. The whole prodigal’s great return thing might be lost on him.
“Turn around.”
That he understood. The thick accent disappeared with the deliberate shift to English, leaving only a hint of Latina. He turned slowly, respecting the size of the weapon and the temerity of the woman holding it.
“Turn on that light behind you. Please.”
Please? Did she just add “please” to her direct order, as if she might believe him? He’d hold back on the humor of the situation because either the Remington or the Ithaca would make short work of him at this range, and his pricey wardrobe was about the only accessible tan- gible he had left after years of hard work and financial ladder climb- ing. Bullets rarely hit seams, and fixing a hole in the middle of his lapel would be impossible, even for the best Manhattan tailors.
He hit the switch but kept his focus on the woman. When soft light flooded the area, his heart hit pause.
Untraditional beauty.
He wasn’t sure what he expected. Maybe some aged abuela working to earn money for her family. Streams of Central American immigrants came north to work the vast fruit orchards of Washing- ton. Some stayed, sending money back home to help those still south of the border. His smattering of Spanish came from working along- side some of those laborers as a kid.
But the woman facing him was nobody’s grandmother. Angular planes lent a hint of Native American attributes to her exquisite face, perfectly sculpted brows deepened the angles, and eyes the color of dense, dark smoke appraised him.
And in that gaze? She found him lacking. So what else was new?
In Stafford-speak, you toed the line and lived for the ranch. Sam Stafford was an all-or-nothing guy, and Colt had broken the rules. Now it was time to eat crow, humble pie, and anything else they served prodigals these days since the fatted calf refused to make an appearance. “I’m Colt.” He gestured toward the picture on the far wall. “I’m on the right, next to Nick and behind Trey.”
“I’m not blind.” She stared hard at him and slowly lowered the gun. “You have been away many years and have no use for your father. This I know well.”
“Good.” A quick chill climbed his back. “That saves us the customary exchange of pleasantries. And you are?”
“Angelina Morales.” She said the name with unusual crispness. “I am your father’s housekeeper and cook.” Her tone softened, but her expression stayed tough. “I help keep things running smooth. And” — she sighed, and her posture said she didn’t like admitting this next part — “I am sorry I pointed a gun at you. It’s late and I heard a strange noise.”
“I tried calling. No one answered.”
She flushed. “I was away this evening. The men were off, and your father is having tests in the hospital. I stopped to see him, then ran errands in town.”
“Hospital? How bad is he?” Colt moved closer and relieved her of the gun. He unloaded the Ithaca bent barrel, his father’s favorite, then set it back above the fireplace, old-style. “He told me he’s been losing strength, but my father isn’t exactly an old man.” He studied Angelina’s face. “Is he going to be okay?”
“He’s not okay. You know he is a private man and will want to tell you things himself.” She motioned toward the stairs of the classic western home, her expression serious. “I haven’t dusted your room in two weeks or washed the blankets in a long time. I apologize for this, and I will take care of it in the morning, but for now it will have to do.”
“I spent a lot of years riding herd. Sometimes I fell into that bed dog-tired and plenty dirty. A little dust and unwashed blankets are nothing.”
Doubt and disparagement filled her eyes as she scanned his designer suit. “Dog-tired is still fine. Sleeping dirty in a clean bed is not.” Bossy. Antagonistic. Well, he wouldn’t be in the house enough to have her tough-girl attitude bother him. And if he wanted to fall asleep dirty at the end of a long day riding herd or freeze-branding beef, he’d do it.
He started for the stairs, realized he was reacting more like a five- year-old than a thirty-five-year-old, and turned. “Thank you, Angelina. For not shooting me and for your good care for my father.”
Disbelief claimed her features at his lame attempt to man up, and in that one look he knew Angelina Morales wasn’t easily impressed by anything, which was probably why she was able to put up with his father.
Like you’re the easygoing one of the family? Yeah. Right, cowboy.
Reality hit home as he climbed the stairs with the small carry-on bag he’d brought into the house. He would bring in the meager bal- ance of his possessions tomorrow. For tonight, this was enough.
He’d come back west tired, disillusioned, and filled with self- doubt, but at least he had a place to come back to. A lot of his Wall Street associates were out on the street after this latest market correc- tion and Ponzi-style fiasco. He should be counting his blessings, even though he had an option most guys in New York wouldn’t under- stand. The chance to mount up and man up.
God’s timing is eternal and perfect.
His mother would have said that. She’d have been wrong, but she’d have said it, and he would have believed her because Christine Stafford was honest and kind and exuded warmth like the golden rays of angled sunlight on a late-August afternoon.
He lost her thirty-one years ago. He was four years old, just start- ing preschool.
He remembered being scared, so scared that first day of school. The building, big and brown. All those windows. People every- where. Kids running, playing, laughing. He wondered how he could get out of there, but his mother took his hand, led him to a quiet corner, and squatted low. “Trying new things is good for us, Colt. It makes us stronger, like eating spinach when we’d rather have candy.”
“I don’t like spinach.”
“But you tried it and made me so proud.” She’d leaned in and kissed his cheek. “And now it’s time to try this.”
He’d sighed and looked around, and she’d waited for him to make the decision. She’d put it in his hands. That was another thing to miss once she was gone. His father wasn’t the make-your-own- decision type. Sam Stafford’s motto was “my way or the highway,” with the guts and grit that built a multimillion-dollar beef enterprise while others around him failed.
He’d looked up at his mother and whispered, “I’ll try it, Mom. I
promise.”
She kissed his cheek, ruffled his hair, and slipped out.
He never saw her again. A semi carrying an unbalanced load spun out of control on the two-lane. The ensuing crash killed three people — including Christine Stafford.
He’d kept his promise. He’d tried school, and he did well. Over the years he’d tried a lot of things and done well until a few weeks before when the market nosedived and abject failure found him. He’d have been all right if that was all that happened. The hedge funds he governed were designed to withstand market pressures, but when the stock market slide revealed a mammoth Ponzi scheme run by a major Wall Street investment firm — a firm he’d trusted with a massive amount of money — his investment in that fund crashed along with a lot of people’s money. Good people, normal folks who trusted his expertise. He’d failed them. He’d failed himself.
And now he was back in the West, humbled by circumstance, not choice. The Manhattan DA had some of his assets in lockdown, some were in critically hit market funds, and some had disappeared in Tomkins’s well-shielded pyramid structure.
God’s timing, eternal and perfect? What a joke.
But he’d made that promise to his mother, to try things as needed. Right now he could use a job, and his father needed hands on deck. Colt was a numbers guy, and the mathematics of the situa- tion wasn’t lost on him. In the end it all came down to simple equa- tions. One plus one equaled two.
Unless the human factor messed things up. And in Gray’s Glen, Washington?
That was entirely possible.
“Slick City Boy Comes Home.” Angelina didn’t find the imaginary headline amusing as she strode toward her first-floor suite beyond the state-of-the-art kitchen and washing facilities. The extended hallway gave her just enough distance to provide space and privacy to be her own person, even on Stafford land.
She walked into her room and closed the door, trying to sort old memories from current concerns.
You pulled a gun on Colt Stafford.
Holding Sam’s son at gunpoint fell neatly into the realm of cur- rent concerns. What was she thinking?
Her heart hammered as she crossed the room. She listened to the messages on the house phone, and there it was. “This is Colt. I’m on my way from the airport. They switched my flight, so I’ll be there tonight instead of in the morning.”
Information that would have been helpful thirty minutes ago. How could she have been so stupid?
Not stupid, her conscience argued. Your training kicked in, plain and simple. Launching into Spanish, though? That was a blast from the past, chica.
Her ability to deepen or lose her accent had worked in her favor
on the Seattle police force but was not helpful now. Detective Mary Angela Castiglione could role-play at will, but here at the Double S, Angelina Morales should be unchanging — a simple housekeeper who liked to cook, clean, and sew tiny gowns for grieving parents.
What if Colt’s father took offense at her actions? What if he fired her?
Sam loves you. He treats you like a daughter, and he knows the truth. He knows you; he knows your past. He understands. He’ d never let you go.
The mental reassurance sounded nice, but then she’d never pulled a gun on one of Sam’s sons before.
First time for everything. Being stubborn, Staffords, and male, they probably half expect it.
The truth of that almost made her smile. The cold, hard look on
Colt Stafford’s face erased the temptation.
She’d dealt with his kind before. Cool, calculating men in de- signer suits with a head for finance and a heart for gambling. Lust for money and power had taken too much from her already.
Never again.
She’d brought her mother and son inland and nailed her two familial objectives: safety and obscurity. Her mother was discontented but safe, and her precious son was protected. She’d found an incomplete peace in Gray’s Glen, a small western town nestled in a broad valley of rolling fields. It was a respite from the dark crimes of city streets.
Managing the ranch house had been the ideal solution to myriad problems, but she may have ruined everything by grabbing that gun.
Anyone who takes offense at a woman defending herself isn’t worth the bother, her conscience chided. The gun is above the fire- place for a reason. This isn’t Country Décor 101. It’s the Old West, a century removed, but still a place where it’s not only okay to own a gun, it’s downright smart to know how to use it.
She’d known how to use a gun long before she moved here. Anyone brought up by Isabo and Martín Castiglione understood the basics of self-defense. Raised...
“Back in the Saddle is an uplifting and heartwarming story about two wounded people using the power of faith to find the courage to change. A dramatic ranch setting, rich characterization, and a beautiful love story make this a book to savor. This is a strong beginning for what promises to be an exciting trilogy. Ruth Logan Herne is my new favorite author!”
—Karen White, New York Times bestselling author
“Heart and hope combine in Ruth Logan Herne’s sweet tale of old wounds and ties that bind. Where faith and forgiveness are present, old scars can be healed and new love can bloom. Sometimes, you really can go home again.”
—Lisa Wingate, national bestselling author of The Story Keeper and The Sea Keeper’s Daughters
“Not your average cowboy story, Back in the Saddle is the action-packed tale of an emotionally wounded prodigal (from Wall Street, no less!), his family’s dysfunctional ranching dynasty, and a unique heroine with a heartbreaking secret and an adorable son. Cowboys and kids, trouble and tragedy, Ruth Logan Herne delivers a tender romance wrapped in a wise, heart-touching blanket of redemption and grace. Highly recommended!”
—Linda Goodnight, bestselling, award-winning author of The Memory House and The Rain Sparrow
“From the first pages, readers will be drawn into the community of Gray’s Glen, the amazing cast of characters, and the lives of the hero and heroine. Angelina and Colt fill the pages of this book with a romance that will have readers wanting to know their past, their future, and the story that intertwines their lives. With Back in the Saddle, Ruth Logan Herne takes us on a journey that we will want to continue!”
—Brenda Minton, author of the Martin’s Crossing series
“Wrapped up in Ruth Logan Herne’s heart-touching style, Back in the Saddle delivers an engaging, romantic tale of a spunky heroine with secrets to keep and a sigh-worthy cowboy hero finding his way back home.”
—Glynna Kaye, award-winning author of the Hearts of Hunter Ridge series
“As always, Ruth Logan Herne shoots straight to the heart with Back in the Saddle...the heart of the story and the reader. This is one cowboy love story you’ll want to enjoy to the very last page.”
—Debra Clopton, author of Kissed by a Cowboy
—Karen White, New York Times bestselling author
“Heart and hope combine in Ruth Logan Herne’s sweet tale of old wounds and ties that bind. Where faith and forgiveness are present, old scars can be healed and new love can bloom. Sometimes, you really can go home again.”
—Lisa Wingate, national bestselling author of The Story Keeper and The Sea Keeper’s Daughters
“Not your average cowboy story, Back in the Saddle is the action-packed tale of an emotionally wounded prodigal (from Wall Street, no less!), his family’s dysfunctional ranching dynasty, and a unique heroine with a heartbreaking secret and an adorable son. Cowboys and kids, trouble and tragedy, Ruth Logan Herne delivers a tender romance wrapped in a wise, heart-touching blanket of redemption and grace. Highly recommended!”
—Linda Goodnight, bestselling, award-winning author of The Memory House and The Rain Sparrow
“From the first pages, readers will be drawn into the community of Gray’s Glen, the amazing cast of characters, and the lives of the hero and heroine. Angelina and Colt fill the pages of this book with a romance that will have readers wanting to know their past, their future, and the story that intertwines their lives. With Back in the Saddle, Ruth Logan Herne takes us on a journey that we will want to continue!”
—Brenda Minton, author of the Martin’s Crossing series
“Wrapped up in Ruth Logan Herne’s heart-touching style, Back in the Saddle delivers an engaging, romantic tale of a spunky heroine with secrets to keep and a sigh-worthy cowboy hero finding his way back home.”
—Glynna Kaye, award-winning author of the Hearts of Hunter Ridge series
“As always, Ruth Logan Herne shoots straight to the heart with Back in the Saddle...the heart of the story and the reader. This is one cowboy love story you’ll want to enjoy to the very last page.”
—Debra Clopton, author of Kissed by a Cowboy
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- ÉditeurMultnomah
- Date d'édition2017
- ISBN 10 0735290652
- ISBN 13 9780735290655
- ReliurePoche
- Nombre de pages304
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Back in the Saddle: A Novel (Double S Ranch)
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Multnomah
(2017)
ISBN 10 : 0735290652
ISBN 13 : 9780735290655
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Description du livre Etat : New. Book is in NEW condition. 0.34. N° de réf. du vendeur 0735290652-2-1
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Back in the Saddle: A Novel (Double S Ranch)
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Multnomah
(2017)
ISBN 10 : 0735290652
ISBN 13 : 9780735290655
Neuf
Couverture souple
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Back in the Saddle: A Novel (Double S Ranch)
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Multnomah
(2017)
ISBN 10 : 0735290652
ISBN 13 : 9780735290655
Neuf
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