The Bachelor’s Surrender
Read The Bachelor’s Surrender Online
Authors: Janelle Denison
Janelle Denison
Copyright © Janelle Denison, November 2014
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All right reserved. No part of this may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Author.
Dear Reader,
THE BACHELOR’S SURRENDER was originally written as a Harlequin Romance in 1999 (as Substitute Father), and is much sweeter and more traditional in tone than my current books. I’m thrilled to have the rights back to this book that has been out of print for years, and I’m equally thrilled to share some of my earlier novels with my readers.
This book was originally written at a time when cowboys, ranches, and small towns were a very popular theme in romance novels. I’ve made a few changes to update certain aspects of the story, but the classic tone remains the same.
I hope you enjoy Rafe and Lauren’s story!
Happy Reading,
Janelle Denison
I
t had been one of the longest days of Lauren Richmond’s life. A five hour flight out of Los Angeles to Cody, Wyoming, had turned into a ten-hour nightmare of airline delays and layovers, not to mention the added two-hour drive in a rental car to Cedar Creek, the small town south of Cody where Rafe Dalton lived. Now, it was after seven in the evening, the day nearly gone, though the warm June sun still hung against the endless expanse of blue sky.
Lauren was exhausted and hungry, and the more she thought about Rafe Dalton’s rudeness, which had forced her to make this impromptu trip from California, the more agitated she became. This formal visit could have been avoided by a simple return phone call in response to any of the three registered letters she’d sent him. A signed receipt was proof that he’d received her correspondences, yet he hadn’t had the courtesy to acknowledge any of them.
Lauren tightened her grip on the steering wheel of her rented sedan and blew out a frustrated stream of breath that ruffled the wispy bangs brushing across her forehead. Rafe Dalton might be a hotshot, three time PRCA Bull Riding Champion, but in her estimation he was an arrogant, self-centered jerk.
As much as she dreaded meeting the man, a confrontation was inevitable. A nine-year-old boy was counting on her to make his fondest wish come true, and she’d yet to disappoint any of her young foster clients. No matter how inconsiderate the man, she refused to allow Rafe Dalton to be her first failure.
She passed numerous houses and ranches, their addresses indicating she was headed in the right direction. Before long she came upon a crude dirt road that disappeared over a small crest and didn’t invite further exploration. Slowing her vehicle, she scanned the area and found the verification she needed. Posted at the entrance was a sturdy metal mailbox imprinted with the address she was looking for, along with the name “R. Dalton”. Below that was a bright red sign stating: “
PRIVATE ROAD. NO TRESPASSING
”.
Ignoring the blatant warning, she turned her car onto the bumpy dirt drive. After everything she’d gone through to get here, she wasn’t about to be intimidated by a road that seemingly vanished over a knoll, or a sign warning away strangers. She refused to leave Wyoming until she spoke face-to-face to the bull riding champion and convinced him to oblige her client. Certainly once he understood her purpose he’d be more accommodating.
What she encountered when her vehicle crested the small hill caused a frown to form on her brow. Considering she’d heard Rafe Dalton was fairly wealthy from his PRCA winnings, she’d expected something far grander than what met her eyes. About a half mile down the road standing in a sheltering growth of cottonwoods was a simple one-story structure with a small porch. There was nothing elaborate or pretentious about the house, nothing to indicate the man who resided there lived in the lap of luxury. In fact, as she drove closer, she decided the place lacked color and panache. And warmth.
Beyond the modest house and small, neat yard, a large white barn and other utility buildings fanned out in a uniformed half circle, connected to each other by a network of corrals and pens. To her left, horses grazed lazily in a huge, sprawling pasture.
She pulled her car next to a shiny red truck parked on a paved area in front of the house and cut the engine. Gathering her purse and briefcase, she stepped out of the vehicle, rolling her stiff shoulders as she glanced around, waiting for that friendly, country hospitality everyone told her she’d encounter from the people who lived in the Midwest.
No one came outside to greet her. In fact, except for the soft neighing of horses and the twittering of a few nearby birds, everything was quiet.
In a last ditch effort to look presentable and professional after her long, tiring day, Lauren ran her fingers through the blunt cut of her shoulder-length hair and smoothed a hand down her light blue linen skirt. She was certain she looked as wilted as she felt, and knowing there was little she could do about her unfashionable state, she headed determinedly toward Rafe Dalton’s house.
Her heels clicked on the stairs as she climbed them and echoed off the wooden porch. The front door was open, the entryway secured by a screen door inlaid with solid oak. Inside, the house was silent.
Lauren knocked on the wooden slat on the screen door and anxiously waited for a response. She prided herself on being confident when it came to business, yet she couldn’t stop the sudden attack of nerves that swarmed in her belly. She had no idea what to expect from this man she’d traveled thousands of miles to visit on behalf of a little boy’s request. She only knew she’d do everything in her power to return to California with good news for her young, hopeful foster client, Chad Evans.
When she received no reply, she knocked again, louder and harder this time, a resounding rap no one in the house could dismiss. A few seconds later she heard heavy footsteps on the wooden floor within, heading toward the foyer.
“I’m comin’, Kristin,” a gruff male voice announced, his tone brusque. “And when did you develop manners to knock instead of barging in like you normally do-”
His words abruptly died when he saw that the person standing on his porch wasn’t the woman he’d been expecting. As far as Lauren knew from the reports she’d been given on Rafe Dalton, he was unmarried, so she assumed Kristin was a lady friend.
The man glaring at her through the screen door was without a doubt Rafe Dalton, bull riding champion extraordinaire. And it looked as though she’d caught him fresh out of the shower. He wore a pair of faded jeans that rode low on his hips, and nothing else.
Her heart thumped in her chest and her mouth went dry, making speech impossible. His midnight black hair was damp and tousled around his head, and droplets of water still clung to the light furring of hair on his wide and well-defined chest. His shoulders were broad, his arms roped with muscle and sinew. A flat belly tapered into narrow hips, which gave way to hard thighs and long, strong legs.
Lord, the man was gorgeous, if you didn’t count the tight clenching of his firm, chiseled jaw, which gave him a dark and dangerous edge she hadn’t detected in any of the pictures Chad had eagerly shared with her. The multitude of candid photographs from Chad’s scrapbook had shown a man in his prime—a sexy, swaggering cowboy with a cocky sparkle in his light gray eyes and a friendly, flirtatious smile that no doubt had many rodeo bunnies vying for his attention.
Retirement hadn’t been kind to him. Though the man in front of her was in his prime physically, there was a darkness in his narrowed gaze as intense as a brooding storm. There was no warmth in his eyes, no reckless charm in his expression . . . just a bleak emptiness that didn’t invite a person to breach those dark barriers he’d erected.
He didn’t bother to open the screen door, the gesture in itself a sign that she wasn’t welcome. Standing on the other side of the threshold, his gaze flickered down the length of her, taking in her cream silk blouse, linen skirt, and strappy summer heels with unnerving insolence.
“You lost or something, lady?” he asked, the lines above his brows deepening in a fierce frown. “You’re about two hours away from where you belong.”
His harsh greeting startled her. “Excuse me?”
He propped his hands on his hips, agitation radiating from him. “Dressed like you are, I’m guessing you’re not from around here.”
She did suppose her attire was more sophisticated than what this rural part of Wyoming warranted. “No, I’m not—”
“Didn’t think so,” he cut her off before she could finish. “Cody is north of here. Hop back on the interstate and it’s a straight shot from there.” He turned to leave, clearly dismissing her, then abruptly stopped and glanced back. “And the next time you see a “Private Road, No Trespassing” sign posted, it means
keep out
, unless you’re issued a personal invitation.”
Indignation bristled up Lauren’s spine. The man wasn’t only rude, but insulting to boot! Before he could turn away again and she lost the opportunity to state her business, she said, “I’m not looking for the nearest city. I just drove
from
Cody after spending eight hours trying to get to Wyoming from Los Angeles.” Her tone was curt, and fringed with the beginnings of anger. “I’m here to talk to
you
, Mr. Dalton.” The fact that she knew who he was and had made a special trip to see him snagged his attention. He gave her another once over that was slow, thorough, and made her skin tingle in an unsettling way.
“And you are?” he asked in a low, rumbling drawl, though his soft tone didn’t make up for his grim expression.
“Lauren Richmond.” Her chin lifted in a show of tenacity, and her fingers tightened around the handle of her leather briefcase. “And if the name sounds familiar, it’s because I’m the woman who sent you
three
certified letters, none of which you had the courtesy of replying to.”
Her speech ended on a peak of displeasure. He remained aloof and uninfluenced, his gaze cool and detached. It was as though the man just didn’t care . . . about anything.