Hill Country Homecoming
Sarah Mansfield has big dreams—live large on her daddy’s money and marry a man who has even more. Born into a wealthy horse breeding family in the Texas Hill Country, she snagged Trey Simpson, a fast-climbing six-figure income attorney from a prestigious natural gas dynasty in Oklahoma. They decide to spend the holidays at her daddy’s ranch where they’ll announce their engagement. Her dreams are on the verge of coming true, until Christmas night her plans, and her life, change forever. Now, the Bar-M’s future weighs on her shoulders.
Ranch Manager Travis Wallace always considered Sarah a spoiled brat. She may be easy on the eyes, but her hoity-toity, daddy’s little rich girl attitude always turned his stomach. Now, her tenacity to bring the horse ranch back into the black has him cocking back his Stetson. Perhaps there is more to this gal than he first thought, especially when she questions him about the true meaning of Christmas beyond tinsel and gifts. Could this be the woman God has chosen for him? It will take a miracle or two to convince him.
Available Through These Ebook Retailers & More!
Live rich, marry richer. That had been Sarah Mansfield’s goal since grade school. Now, after years of plotting and planning, it lay within reach.
She angled the two-carat round-cut solitaire, surrounded by a myriad of smaller stones, to catch the light streaming through the car window. The facets glimmered in the warm, winter sun as it bounced off the bare cypress branches swishing overhead. Her fiancé, Tucker Simpson, sat next to her in his shiny, new Italian convertible. As he shifted gears and pressed the clutch, his hand-stitched, never-stepped-into-manure boots gave off a soft whiff of saddle-soap. Outside the window, the glistening emerald Guadalupe River wound along the state road like a lazy rattler seeking shade.
“It is the one you wanted. From Harrison’s, right?”
“Yes. I should have known you’d dare not shop anyplace else.” She gave him a teasing wink.
“Only the best for my girl. As soon as I signed the Henderson account with the firm, it proved my worth.” His diamond-eyed, eighteen-carat gold longhorn tie tack blinked in her direction. Symbol of graduating in the top of his Texas law school class.
He slipped his hand from the gearshift and laced his fingers through hers. “After only six months with Abernathy, Smith and Firth, I am the newest junior partner. At $300K a year, I can almost afford you.”
“The ring is perfect. Just like you, honey.” She fluttered her mascara-laden eyelashes and pecked his golf-course-bronzed cheek in response. His French aftershave, at $129.95 an ounce, swept her into euphoria. Yep, all the effort and waiting had paid off.
Born into one of the wealthiest horse breeding families in Central Texas, Sarah spent her summers galloping across the plains in the morning, lounging on rafts in the river through the afternoons, and kicking up dust at the rodeo dances until midnight, all the while tantalizing the local boys she kept at arm’s length. While they offered a certain amount of fun, they didn’t fit the bill. Too uncouth and prone to spit chewing tobacco.
The school year, spent in San Antonio, sequestered her in an upscale parochial girl’s school away from the inner city sharks, though a few boldly circled the posh pond trying to lure a socialite with their good looks and slumming charms. Nice playthings on which to practice her femininity, but long ago, she’d set her sights on far larger fish—Dallas or Houstonian guys with daddy’s money bulging from wallets in the back pockets of their too-tight jeans.
After she graduated, she attended one of the top private colleges in the state and pledged a sorority—the one of her mother and grandmother. Next, she spent the obligatory year touring Europe with the other debutantes, per time-honored protocol, in order to round out her cultural repertoire and to catch the eyes of rich and eligible cosmopolitan bachelors. The fact she had enough brains to make straight A’s all the way through school hardly mattered. Graceful flirtations, the right haircut and perfume, and a flawlessly tanned body did.
Her best friend, Emma Rose, landed a minor British duke, but Sarah’s attention fell on Tucker as he volleyed the beach ball while summering on the Italian Riviera. His rippled abs captured the Mediterranean sunbeams and ricocheted into her heart. She used every feminine wile in her well-bred arsenal to convince him to snare her instead of one of the other girls, and then played a mild hard-to-get to reel him in. She convinced her father to pay for her to get her Master’s in Renaissance English Literature at the university in Dallas so she could keep Tucker wiggling on the hook once he landed employment at the prestigious law firm. It was also where she made her debut into society, accumulating well-established names and addresses for her future wedding invitations. Yep, her plans had fallen in place.
Sarah laced her arm through Tucker’s and leaned into his shoulder blade. She raised her left hand higher. “Everyone at the Christmas Dance tonight at the Bar-M Ranch will wish they were us. You are going to drool over my dress.”
“I’d prefer to see you out of it, but I know you are the wait-until-the-honeymoon type.”
She lifted off his chest and protruded her lower lip as she twisted to face him. “Which you’ve agreed to abide by.”
“Anything for you, angel. You just keep reminding me you’re worth the wait, okay?” He winked.
She snickered. “My daddy will, for sure. He’s won awards for his rifle shooting.”
Tucker cleared his throat. “How many folks are you expecting tonight?”
“Oh, around two-hundred I guess.” She scrunched her nose and swished back her palomino-blonde hair. “Dad insists on letting the ranch hands and their families join in the holiday festivities. Which, unfortunately, means Mr. Righteous will be in attendance.” She mimed a gag, dipping her finger to the back of her tongue.
Tucker’s eyes twinkled in response as he draped an arm over her shoulders and pulled her close. “You mean your dad’s right hand man, Travis?”
She snuggled into his ribcage and yawned. “That’s the one. Hope he leaves his Bible in the bunkhouse. I don’t want religion spoiling my Christmas.”
He reared his head back, revealing a protruding Adam’s apple peeking from his starched and professionally pressed Oxford shirt collar. A laugh exploded from his lips.
“Turn down that road up ahead on the right, honey, where you see the large oak and the Texas flag.”
“Yes’m.” Tucker twisted to face her as she rose off his torso and smoothed her hair back into place. “Sarah. Am I seriously supposed to get on this Travis’ good side? I mean, could he prevent our wedding if he disapproved?”
She brushed a piece of lint from her French designer jeans. “Daddy always values his opinions about raising horses, so sometimes, he gets his nose a bit too high, if you get my meaning. But”—she lifted her gaze and narrowed her blue eyes—“if that cowpoke hisses, you ignore him. He’ll slither back into his hole where he belongs as soon as he realizes Daddy’s happy as long as I’m happy.”
“Good to know.” His eyes returned to the road winding through the prairie grass ahead of them.
“There’s the entrance. Turn left here.”
Sarah clicked the remote fob on her key ring to open the massive metal gates. They parted like the Red Sea for Moses. Bar-M Ranch, welded in a bronzed-relief arc, crowned the entrance, flanked by seven-foot high sculptures of rearing horses perched on Texas limestone columns.
Tucker pressed the gas pedal to the floor as the high-powered engine revved. The speedometer needle jerked to eighty-five. Sarah squealed as the vehicle levitated over the iron rods of the cattle guard. With a high pitched va-room, the chassis soared until the tires once again found road. Tucker steered his red sports car back onto terra firma, spewing a cloud of rusty-yellow caliche dust.
“Mr. Simpson, I swear you are showin’ off now.”
“I believe in a grand entrance.” He dashed his famous, ultra-charming smirk in her direction. “You never told me. What does the “M” in Bar-M stand for?”
Sarah gave him a wry smile. Her answer drawled out in a sophisticated Texas twang. “Why, money, of course.”