A Groom For Gwen Read online

  “All right, Mr. Stoner. I’ll hire you on a trial basis. One month.”

  Letter to Reader

  Title Page

  Dedication

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Copyright

  “All right, Mr. Stoner. I’ll hire you on a trial basis. One month.”

  “I’ll be here as long as you need me.”

  The words were innocuous enough, but somehow he invested them with deeper meaning.

  “What does that mean?” Gwen asked.

  “I’m a man who has to drift. I’m just passing through.”

  “I’m not interested in hiring a transient,” she said sharply.

  The man met her eyes, his gaze clear and steady. “I’ll stay as long as you need me. I always do.”

  Gwen wanted to believe Jake Stoner. She had no choice but to believe him. “All right,” she said slowly. “When can you start?” Please, she thought, let it be now.

  He held out his hand. “Soon as we shake on it, ma’am.”

  She didn’t want to shake hands with him. She didn’t want to touch him. The realization disconcerted her. Jake Stoner was more than the hunk her lawyer Prudence had labeled him. He was overwhelmingly male. If she knew one thing, it was that Jake Stoner spelled trouble. And he worked for her.

  Dear Reader,

  Remember the magic of the film It’s a Wonderful Life? The warmth and tender emotion of Truly, Madly, Deeply? The feel-good humor of Heaven Can Wait?

  Well, we can’t promise you Alan Rickman or Warren Beatty, but we know you’ll be delighted with the latest miniseries in Harlequin Romance®: GUARDIAN ANGELS. It brings together all of your favorite ingredients for a perfect novel: great heroes, feisty heroines, breathtaking romance, all with a celestial spin. Written by four of our star authors, this witty and wonderful series features four real-life angels—all of whom are perfect advertisements for heaven!

  Already available are The Boss, the Baby and the Bride by Day Leclaire and Heavenly Husband by Carolyn Greene. This month it’s Jeanne Allan’s turn with A Groom for Gwen—a story of such emotional intensity you’ll cry tears of laughter and sadness at its tender humor and heart-wrenching poignancy. Not to be missed in December is Margaret Way’s Gabriel’s Mission.

  Have a heavenly read!

  Failing in love sometimes needs a little help from above!

  GUARDIAN ANGELS

  A Groom for Gwen

  Jeanne Allan

  TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON

  AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG

  STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID

  PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

  For my father,

  who knew how to tell a story

  CHAPTER ONE

  SLOUCHED against the building, Jake watched the woman come down the street. With her yellow hair, she was pretty as a bald-faced heifer. Somehow Jake knew when he cut the right trail, although Michaels never told him.

  Michaels. No first name, just Michaels. The man looked like a greenhorn in his boiled shirt and derby. Jake thought of him as a kind of trail boss for the Almighty, but Michaels was unlike any bible-puncher Jake had known. Those preachers could plumb tucker a man out with their palaver about brimstone and damnation. Michaels, on the other hand, didn’t say much, but his piercing blue eyes told Jake that Michaels had experienced more than most men would know in a dozen lifetimes. Those same eyes saw right though a man’s hide and counted all his sins.

  Jake had plenty of sins to count, he thought, idly admiring the long, graceful legs striding toward him. No sashaying for this woman. Women rigged out in pants no longer startled him, and he studied her from head to toe with masculine appreciation. She was on the slender side, but she had enough womanly curves to please. Jake had never been partial to the big-bosomed women his brother Luther had liked hanging on him. He wished he could see the eyes hidden behind them dark cheaters—sunglasses, they called them now—that everyone wore. From the look on her face, the woman was making a powerful sight of thinking about something more than the tyke in her arms.

  Michaels said this was the tenth time. The tenth and last. Then Jake could present himself at the Pearly Gates. Jake was tired of evil and war and killing and stupidity and greed. Over a century had passed since Jake’s time, and mankind had learned nothing. Sometimes Jake thought he didn’t even care if he went upstairs or down below. He just wanted out of it. No more anger, sorrow, frustration, worry or caring. He wanted, once and for all time, to simply cease to be.

  He’d tried to tell Michaels how he felt, but the other man had already gone. Jake hated that. Michaels came and went like a ghost. Maybe Jake did the same. If this was ten, that meant he’d done nine jobs already, but those jobs, those people, had faded from his memory.

  His memories came from his real life.

  If people like him had memories.

  Funny, what he knew and what he didn’t know. Jake knew he’d been gunned down in 1886 while relieving a bank of the responsibility of storing so many banknotes. He didn’t know why he hadn’t been tossed in the hellfire down below. Michaels never answered questions. He simply sent Jake back to earth to help people.

  People like the woman drawing near. Jake straightened and tipped his hat.

  The August wind blowing off the high Colorado plains made a mockery of her once neatly combed hair. Gwen blinked the grit from her eyes as a crumpled piece of paper blew across the Trinidad street and bounced off her grimy canvas shoe. Dust coated her face. So much for bucolic fantasies. Someone should have warned her country living meant wind and dirt and grasshoppers. And smells. Not once had she seen a painting of cows which included cow patties. It was dishonest, is what it was. Not that she was so stupid she couldn’t figure out what went in had to come out.

  Head bowed against the wind, she muttered, “Insanity, thy name is Gwen Ashton.”

  Crissie giggled, and tightened her grip around Gwen’s neck.

  Gwen gave her niece a look of mock reproach. “A big girl who’s going to be four years old on her next birthday ought to be walking instead of being carried like a baby.”

  “I tired,” Crissie said matter-of-factly.

  “What a shame. I thought we could have some ice cream, but if you’re too tired to walk, you must be too tired to eat.”

  The little girl wiggled. “I want down.” On the ground, she beamed a beatific smile at her aunt. “Strawberry ice cream?”

  Gwen shuddered ostentatiously. “Strawberry. Yuk.” The way the dust swirled around them, they’d be better off ordering chocolate so the dirt, which was bound to stick to the ice cream, didn’t show. Not that a little dirt would be such a great disaster. Compared to the rest of the day, a little dirt on ice cream could almost be considered a blessing. And she could certainly use a blessing or two.

  “Howdy, Ma’am.”

  At first the slow, deep drawl didn’t register. She didn’t know anyone in Trinidad, Colorado, except Prudence. Gwen reminded herself she wasn’t living in Denver anymore. Here, everyone probably greeted strangers. Not to reply would be rude. Fixing a polite smile on her face, she turned to the man standing in the shadow of the storefront. He was tall, forcing her to look up past a broad chest and wide shoulders. The smile froze on her face.

  The man belonged in a picture book about outlaws and desperadoes. He hadn’t shaved in recent history, and dark stubby whiskers accentuated a squared-off jaw which appeared to have been hewn f
rom granite. A devil-may-care smile curved his mouth, but the gray eyes beneath heavy dark brows stayed cool. Gwen managed to say hello.

  He removed a battered wide-brimmed black felt hat, revealing shaggy, coal-black hair. “Jakob Stoner, Ma’am. Call me Jake. I guess you need a cowhand.”

  Gwen clutched her purse with one hand, and Crissie’s hand with the other. “Where did you hear that?” Silly question. City folk, jammed one on top of the other in town houses and apartments had privacy. In rural communities news didn’t need wires or microwaves to travel faster than the speed of light or whatever traveled fastest.

  He shrugged. “Word gets around.”

  It wasn’t much of an answer. “Did Prudence tell you I’m looking for a new ranch hand?”

  “Prudence?” Amusement gleamed briefly in his eyes. “Ma’am, I don’t think working for you and your husband has anything to do with prudence.”

  “I don’t have a husband.” Gwen immediately cursed herself for saying so. Why didn’t she just tell him she and Crissie lived in the middle of nowhere, her nearest neighbor resided miles away, and her ranch manager was ill and her only other ranch hand had walked out during the night? The lock on the ranch house door didn’t work. the only weapon in the house was an antique buffalo gun which she wouldn’t know how to shoot even if it was loaded, and her idea of self-defense was to call a cop if she saw a suspicious-looking stranger. She had no clue how to handle the tall, dark, dangerous-looking man who stood on the sidewalk in front of her.

  “You’re hurting my hand,” Crissie complained.

  Gwen released Crissie’s hand, but before she could sweep her niece up into her arms, the man squatted down to Crissie’s level. “Howdy, pardner.”

  “I’m Crissie,” the little girl announced. “Not pardner.”

  “My name is Jake.” Setting a much-traveled duffel bag on the ground by a beat-up saddle, he solemnly held out his hand. “Howdy, Crissie.”

  Gwen wanted to snatch Crissie’s hand away. Common sense stopped her. Desperate criminals didn’t carry luggage and saddles. They didn’t abduct nobodies in broad daylight in the middle of town. All she and Crissie had to do was walk away.

  At the sight of Crissie’s small. white hand swallowed up by the large, tanned hand of the stranger, a painful surge of memories swamped Gwen. In her mind’s eye she saw Dan marveling at the tiny perfection of his newborn daughter’s hands and feet. Monica painting tiny fingernails outrageous shades of fuchsia and lavender. “Crissie.” The child’s name caught on the painful lump in Gwen’s throat. “We have to go.”

  “Is he gonna get ice cream wid us?” Crissie asked.

  “I plan to have the biggest vanilla cone you ever did see.”

  “I want vanilla.” Crissie immediately abandoned her prior preference for strawberry.

  “Let’s head for the ice cream parlor, pardner.” He released Crissie’s hand, replaced his hat, and reached for his saddle and bag.

  “Just a moment, Mr. Stoner.”

  He must have heard something in Gwen’s voice because he left his things on the sidewalk and stood tall, facing her. “My pa was Mr. Stoner. Since I’ll be working for you, Ma’am, you call me Jake.”

  Gwen ignored the slow, confident smile. “You won’t be working for me, Mr. Stoner. I don’t hire a perfect stranger.”

  He shook his head, saying ruefully, “Ma’am, the last thing I’ve ever been is perfect.”

  As if that were any recommendation. “Mr. Stoner,” Gwen said evenly, “Prudence Owen, the attorney handling the probate of Bert’s estate, is finding me an employee.”

  “I don’t think so, Ma’am. If she was, you wouldn’t need me.”

  “I don’t need you,” she snapped.

  “You need me. That’s why I’m here. You need a cowboy.” He picked up his gear. “I’m a cowboy.”

  Did he think she was a complete idiot just because she’d never lived on a ranch before? A ranch was nothing more than a business operated outdoors, she repeated to herself for about the millionth time since she’d moved down here. A business about which she knew less than nothing, as became more evident with each passing day. Maybe around here ranchers hired help on such a casual basis. She shook her head, saying under her breath, “Oh boy, Toto, I’m not in Kansas anymore.”

  He heard the last words. “You come from Kansas?”

  “Denver,” she said curtly. And almost wished she were back there. But that thought led to too many wishes which could never be granted.

  “City of the Plains.”

  “What?” Her sinuses must be so plugged with dust, they were affecting her hearing. Or pressing on her brain.

  “Denver. We used to call her the ‘City of the Plains.’”

  Gwen took a deep breath and tried to take control of the conversation. She’d hired strangers before. “Why did your former employer let you go?”

  “You mean the people I helped before? I left because they didn’t need me anymore.”

  Translation: fired. Downsizing, country style. She had a feeling he didn’t have letters of reference. But ranch hands did appear to have their own network. One cowboy in need of a job. One brand-new ranch owner desperately in need of a cowboy. Prudence had howled with mirth when Gwen suggested contacting an employment agency for a ranch hand. When the pretty lawyer finally quit laughing, she said she’d spread the word that the Winthrop ranch needed hands. This cowboy may not have talked with Prudence, but he’d evidently gotten the word.

  Gwen scrutinized the man standing easily in front of her. Nothing about his clothing countermanded her impression that a very dangerous man stood before her. No satin shirts or embroidery or sequins for this man. She could only surmise his faded shirt had once been black and the rose-colored scarf tied around his neck had been red. A scarred brown leather belt cinched worn blue jeans around a narrow waist. Leather chaps made his legs look a million miles long. His boots were worn down at the heels and she’d bet they’d never seen a lick of polish.

  The squint lines fanning out from the comers of his eyes attested to a life spent working outdoors. Real cowboys didn’t have to be bow-legged and spit chewing tobacco. He could be a down-on-his-luck cowboy whose empty pockets had dictated he sleep out of doors the past few nights. He might look less lethal if he shaved.

  He patiently endured her inspection, but she was under no illusion that he awaited her conclusions with any anxiety or doubt. He clearly intended to work for her no matter what she thought. This man had a high opinion of his worth. And he knew who had the greater need. His quiet assurance irritated her. “I’m sorry you lost your last job, Mr. Stoner, but I’m afraid you’ll have to look elsewhere for a new one. I need some kind of reference or assurance a person knows one end of a cow from the other end before I would considering hiring him. Goodbye, Mr. Stoner, and good luck.” It startled Gwen that a man so relaxed could get his muscles moving so quickly. One second he was beside the building, the next he stood in front of her barring her way.

  He held out his hands, palms up, and pointed to a weal running across one palm. “Rope bum. I was twelve and roped an old mossy back steer who had other ideas. I was just stubborn enough to insist he go along with my plans.”

  She couldn’t stop herself from asking, “Did he?”

  “Eventually.” He stretched out a crooked middle finger. “Broke that when I tried to ride a horse who preferred I walk. This—” he pointed to a scar on the back of his other hand “—is where a Texas cow took exception to me getting between her and her youngun.”

  The strong, rugged hands fascinated Gwen. No way could she see those hands operating a computer or elegantly holding the stem of a wineglass. Not that the long fingers, the unbroken ones, that is, didn’t have an elegance about them. She could see those fingers soothing a timid colt or a nervous mare. She could see them stroking naked skin. An image Gwen quickly shook off. “If you think your catalog of injuries serves as an adequate resume, you’re sadly mistaken. You’re clearly unqualified to
work on a ranch.”

  “I’ll have to respectfully disagree with you there, Ma’am. I’ve had lots of experience. And experience is the best teacher.”

  He had an answer for everything. If she wasn’t careful, she’d find herself hiring this modern version of outlaw Jesse James. The truth was, she needed someone who knew cows and horses better than she did. A classification which covered most of the world’s population. The solution came to her in a flash. Prudence. “As I told you, Mr. Stoner, Ms. Owen is doing my hiring. We’ll go over to her office right now, and see if you can satisfy her as to your qualifications. Not that I’m making any promises about hiring you,” she added hastily.

  He gave her an amused look. “You’ll hire me.”

  Prudence took in her stride Gwen’s reappearance, this time with a cowboy in tow. “Have you any identification?” she asked briskly after Gwen explained their visit.

  The man hesitated, then patted his back pocket before slowly pulling out his billfold. He handed it to the lawyer without a word.

  Prudence extracted the plastic-coated license and quickly scanned it. “This seems to be in order.” She handed the billfold and license to Gwen.

  Gwen silently read the information on his driver’s license. Jakob Carl Stoner. Six feet, three inches tall. Black hair. Gray eyes. She quickly computed his age. Thirty-one. That surprised her. For some reason, something about his eyes, she’d thought him older. Slotting the license back in his billfold, she glanced up to catch a puzzled look on his face as he stared down at his billfold. A look quickly erased as he noticed her looking at him. Had he expected her to count his money or snoop through his credit cards?