A Cowboys Touch
Abigail Jones intends to spend just one summer in middle-of-nowhere Montana with her Aunt Lucy. Time away from her job is just what Abigail needs to reassess her life. The slow pace has her breathing deeply for the first time in years.
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And the majestic scenery encourages her to get reacquainted with herself. What she didn't count on was the handsome widowed cowboy who owns the ranch where her aunt lives. When the rancher loses his daughter's nanny, Abigail decides to lend a hand for the summer. Wade Ryan can't help being attracted to Abigail. But he's given up everything to protect his daughter, and he's not about to risk it all on a pretty face. Under Abigail's care, Wade's home and daughter thrive. And with Wade's touch, Abigail's heart feels at home at last.
But Abigail knows this elusive rancher is hiding something. She takes it upon herself to try and save their livelihood.
Through fate, her path crosses with a handsome stranger who has a twist and turn of secrets that could ruin everything. Follow Jennifer as she deals with devastation, heartbreak, and the possibility of a forever love. Well if the radio wasn't such shit, I wouldn't have to fiddle so much, my best friend argued.
Out of the corner of my eye I spotted her reaching for the dial again, ready to search through our shoddy radio stations to find one without static, and I lightly slapped her hand away. She fell back in her seat, laughing the same clear, melodic laugh she'd done since we were kids. Her wispy blonde hair billowed in the cool breeze from the window—my dark brown disaster was up in a messy bun on the top of my head, but little stray pieces tickled my forehead and neck every so often.
We were on our way back from a local market, one that the small town of Friarsville hosted every Friday morning. It was a chance for farmers to bring in fresh crops and live critters, charging reasonable prices to fuel our local economy.
Usually there were a lot of urbanites trickling in as the morning went on, deigning it acceptable to trek out to the countryside for fresh organic product. Little did they know half of the farmers here covered their crop with pesticides: otherwise the bugs would make an absolute mess of them when the season was right. I blamed no one for marking their product as organic—it was just an excuse to jack up the prices, and with the way the economy had been over the last few years, I could see why even the small town growers wanted to take advantage wherever they could.
My truck hit a hard dip in the road, bouncing around the baskets of fresh corn, tomatoes, and strawberries in the narrow backseat bench behind me.
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Christ, Jen, Dottie grumbled, taking hold of the rubber grip strap above the window. Go easy on the old gal. Yeah, I know, I know, I muttered as I tried my best to steer around the cracks and dips that no one bothered to fix anymore. The town barely had the money to function, let alone deal with a few busted roads out amongst the farm fields.
My truck could take it: Dad taught me how to maintain it when I first bought it as a teen, and it purred like a kitten ever since. My obnoxiously red gas guzzler—it was the first major expense I'd ever made. I can't stand the static, Dottie complained as we rumbled along. This time I didn't slap her hand away from the radio, preferring she found a station where we could actually hear some music.
A Cowboy's Touch - Kathleen Rice Adams
The Frairsville station played mostly religious news and songs, which meant we were constantly on the hunt for nearby stations to syphon off of. Bellville and Tuckerston had more progressive DJs on their radio networks, but it was hard to keep a constant signal, especially once you hit the farm fields. As the sun finally poked out from behind the billowy white clouds, I plunked my sunglasses down onto my nose from my forehead, then relaxed back into my seat, elbow hanging out the open window, as some good tunes finally blared from my dashboard.
It'd only taken us twenty minutes to find anything. Look, over there, she urged when I shot her a curious expression, and she quickly turned down the music as we approached the property of one of her neighbors. Mark and Janet Billson had been living three fields down from Dottie long before either of us were born, but it seemed we were destined to outlast them in Friarsville; there was an auction taking place in front of their house.
I slowed the truck to a gentle stop, dust from the unpaved shoulder flying up at us as I pulled over. Teeth gritted, I leaned forward with a squint, hoping that it might just be a garage sale or something—all the while knowing I was looking at an all too familiar sight.
carhireandrental.com/wp-includes/xucycok/509-gay-escort-manor.php All the telltale signs of a bank auction were there: sleek cars littered up the dirt driveway, men in suits tromping all over the beautifully green lawns, surveyors setting up equipment. Like so many farms over the past few years, the Billson place was probably about to get hacked up, divided into little pieces, and sold for condo development. The farmland on the other side of Friarsville was already under development for new residential areas, and in the last town council meeting, some sleazebag from a property development firm pushed for a mall to be built in the area too. Don't get me wrong, I'd love a mall.
It'd be a great escape from some of the everyday drudgery that years of working on a farm could sometimes produce, but I didn't want one if it meant good people were bought out of their homes and whisked off their land, the land they'd spent years cultivating. It's just sad, Dottie sighed, leaning over me to watch the depressing scene unfold.
Mark and Janet are devastated. Where are they going to go? I asked. A flashy sports car suddenly appeared in my side mirror, and I poked my head further out the window to watch it whizz by. The windows were too tinted to see the driver, but as soon as it turned onto the Billson property, I could only imagine what kind of jerk was sitting behind the wheel.