Items related to Reclaiming the Cowboy (The Sisters of Bell River Ranch,...
This cowboy isn't so easy to catch!
When Mitch Garwood ran away with Bonnie O'Mara, he thought he'd found forever. But all his dreams crashed the morning he woke alone. Months later, he's immune to her reappearance. Even if she's now using her real name—Annabelle Irving—and ready to tell him her secrets, he's done.
Too bad the situation is not that simple. Annabelle's willingness to leave her money and position behind so she can work at Bell River Ranch and be near him surprises Mitch. Despite his resolve, the spark of attraction flares again. The most compelling part? Her determination to win him back!
When Mitch Garwood ran away with Bonnie O'Mara, he thought he'd found forever. But all his dreams crashed the morning he woke alone. Months later, he's immune to her reappearance. Even if she's now using her real name—Annabelle Irving—and ready to tell him her secrets, he's done.
Too bad the situation is not that simple. Annabelle's willingness to leave her money and position behind so she can work at Bell River Ranch and be near him surprises Mitch. Despite his resolve, the spark of attraction flares again. The most compelling part? Her determination to win him back!
"synopsis" may belong to another edition of this title.
About the Author:
Kathleen O’Brien is a former feature writer and TV critic who’s written more than 35 novels. She’s a five-time finalist for the RWA Rita award and a multiple nominee for the Romantic Times awards. Though her books range from warmly witty to suspenseful, they all focus on strong characters and thrilling romantic relationships. They reflect her deep love of family, home and community, and her empathy for the challenges faced by women as they juggle today's complex lives.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:
It was a mean March midnight, the road a sludgy river of asphalt oozing in slow loops under an icy moon. Mitch Garwood's mood was sour and his face frost-burned as he rumbled up to the back door of his cottage, one of the six they'd recently finished on the eastern edge of Bell River Ranch.
Tilting off his helmet with one hand, he twisted the key with the other, silencing the growling motorcycle before any of the adjoining guests woke up and complained. Although why they should sleep soundly when he knew darn well he wouldn't...
Still astride the bike, he stared at the dark windows of the cottage, envisioning the cold, half-empty spaces within. A bed. A sofa. A bookcase. A refrigerator full of bottled water and blackening guacamole dip. Six hours of tossing and turning...alone...till dawn, when he could finally get up and distract himself with work.
This was a life?
It was his choice, of course. He'd never been forced to be alone, not since he hit puberty and discovered that rusty-brown hair and a few freckles over a goofy grin actually appealed to some females.
He definitely hadn't needed to be alone tonight. At least fifty bored women from a cosmetics convention in Crawford had jammed into the Happy Horseshoe Saloon. Two-thirds of them were nice, half of them were hot and at least two of them were both.
But not one was interesting enough to take home.
He shoved his helmet into the storage bubble on the back of the bike, a little too roughly. He heard the fiberglass crack against the rim. He'd better watch out—he'd already fractured two helmets this way. He'd probably coil himself up so tight he'd break his own bones if he didn't find a woman soon.
Problem was, the only woman he wanted was the one he couldn't have.
Bonnie. His chest did a painful cramping thing, as if the two syllables were electric prods applied to his heart. Bonnie, he thought again, like the masochist he was, just to feel the reaction once more.
Bonnie O 'Mara. If that was even her name.
For one amazing year, the beautiful mystery woman had seemed like his own personal miracle. Turned out she was a mirage instead. Nearly nine months on the road together, running from something only she could see, and then, one morning, Mitch woke up and she was gone.
That was six months ago. So yeah—he needed someone new.
He inhaled deeply, the Colorado frost stinging his lungs. Too bad he didn't drink. His friends assured him that getting lightly buzzed could put a sparkle into even the dullest diamond.
But he'd tried that once, a few months ago, on his twenty-seventh birthday. He'd found a bottle of Johnnie Walker and a smart, lively redhead visiting from Crested Butte, and he'd mixed them together to see what happened.
He told himself it was allowed, darn it. He wasn't ready to be a monk just because True Love had spit in his face. At the very least, he owed it to himself to make sure his machinery still worked, right?
But—get this—he'd been bored to death. Apologizing as politely as he could, he'd left the confused woman after about five minutes and five kisses, already feeling the hangover churning in his stomach. He'd spent the rest of the night chucking big ugly rocks to see if he could bust a hole in frozen Silverbottom Pond. He'd only succeeded in scaring the deer.
So no more nights like that. The machinery could shrivel up and fall off before he'd repeat that pathetic fiasco.
Mitch rocked the bike up onto its kickstand, then took the steps to the cottage two at a time. If he had to go in, he might as well get it over with.
But the minute he opened the door, he froze. Something felt...different.
The house wasn't empty and still. Someone was here.
He left the lights off as he moved through the kitchen, using only the weak beams of the fingernail moon and the LED displays on the appliances to guide him. As he entered the living room, he picked up a poker from the fireplace, holding it over his shoulder like a baseball bat.
Then he heard a woman's voice, softly, from the darkness.
"Mitch?"
His grip went numb. The poker clattered from his hand. "Bonnie? "
A shadow near the sofa stirred. It formed into a human shape and then became a blur as she ran blindly toward him.
It was. It was Bonnie. He knew her silhouette. He knew her scent. He knew the way she ran and the way her boots lightly tapped across the hardwood floor.
He was only ten feet away. She crashed into him hard, wrapping her arms around him and burying her head in his chest. He had to take a step backward to balance against the collision.
For a split second, he was reminded of the desperate embraces he sometimes got from his nephew, Alec, when the boy was in pain. When the poor kid had run over a squirrel with his bike or found a dying baby bird, fallen from the nest.
But then, as Bonnie lifted her pale, moonlit face to his and smothered his cheeks, his chin...and finally his lips...with kisses, all thoughts of Alec evaporated.
All thoughts of anything evaporated.
His brain shut down entirely, his body taking over.
"Is it really you?" He dug his hands into her silken hair and pulled her as close as he could, close enough to smell her, taste her, own her. Close enough to make the six months of loneliness go away.
"Bonnie," he whispered against her mouth, and maybe she said his name again, or maybe she merely moaned. Her lips were wet where he'd moved over them and so warm. He dragged his kisses, hard and possessive, down the column of her throat and up again. His hands stroked her back, down to her hips, tracing the sweet curve he knew so well.
After so many dreams, so many ghost Bonnies that had come to tease him in the night, only to disappear just short of heaven, he had to convince himself she was real.
She was. He had no idea how this gift had come to him, but he was beyond questioning it now. He lifted her legs so that she nestled against the fire between his, and they both groaned, remembering.
He stumbled backward, not caring whether he was loud or clumsy. Not caring whether he broke everything in the cottage or whether he looked a fool. He kissed her as he walked. He bent his head to find her breasts, though he nearly killed them both as he keeled backward toward the wall.
He made his way, somehow, to the bedroom. He fell with her onto the bed. She was fumbling with his belt and with her own, and he was tearing buttons, hers and his, and shedding clothes and boots as fast as he could.
And there she was, open to him. The same—oh, heaven help him—exactly the same as his dreams. Her breasts were like snow in the moonlight, and he claimed them because they were his. They had always been his, whether she was in his bed or lost in some invisible nowhere.
He went lower, then lower still, as she wriggled under him, wrestling free of scraps of denim and lace. And then he couldn't take it anymore. He rose swiftly up on the heels of his hands, ready.
She fumbled with him, and he realized she was covering him with a condom. He groaned. Even that light touch was torture. And did they need this? She was on the pill...or had been.
Somehow she got it on, though her fingers trembled. When she finished, she lay back with a soft gasp and lifted her legs again, clasping them around his hips.
He had to have her. He didn't care why she felt they needed protection. Maybe she had been...or maybe she thought he had been.
He couldn't think. He couldn't slow himself down. He'd hungered for her so long. He'd been so unbearably alone.
He murmured her name once more. Then, though he knew it might be too soon, he drove into her, at once animal and poet. Master and slave.
Every inch of his body pulsed and burned. His rhythm was hard, fast, relentless, and he heard the tiny hitch in her breathing that meant she was ready. Her head tilted back, exposing her creamy throat. Her legs tightened. Her heels dug into him, asking for more.
He knew her. He knew what she wanted. A few deeper, more powerful thrusts, the wet nip of his lips against her hardening breasts—
Oh, yes, he knew her. She cried out, her back arching, her legs going limp. Seconds, minutes...no longer than that...and, with an agonized groan, he exploded, too. Liquid gold fire poured through his veins, dizzying him, weakening him, dislocating him from time and place.
It lasted forever, for both of them. Of course it did. The river of their passion had flooded behind the dam of separation. Six months of longing, pent up, roiling in powerful currents. Six months of heat and tension and pain.
Finally, he was empty, but amazingly she still shimmered around him, like a crystal bell that no longer rang but filled the air with an exquisite humming. She hadn't opened her eyes, and her breath was still shallow.
His Bonnie. He knew her. Tenderly, he touched two fingers between her legs, closing over the wet heat and coaxing the last invisible tremors free.
She shuddered helplessly, every sensation written on her beautiful face. He held on, poised above her, until finally, finally, her fierce internal pulses stilled. And then, unable to hold himself up an instant longer, he collapsed onto the bed beside her.
They lay together, with braided legs and tangled arms, palm against belly, cheek against breast, until the air grew cool around their sweaty bodies. She moved only once, stretching up to lift the glass he kept by his bed and taking a deep drink from it, as if she was parched.
Then, with a hum of satisfaction, as though the tepid liquid had been sweeter than simple water, she dropped back to his side and laid her head against his chest.
As he breathed in the daffodil, yellow-sky perfume of her hair, something inside him began to relax for the first time in six months. It wasn't just sex. Amazing as that had been, this was deeper than sex.
This was as deep as his soul. He smiled at himself, aware the poet lingered, even now that the animal was sated.
His soul had come back to him.
They dozed. Slept, even. Much later, he woke to a dark, frigid room. He closed his hand over her hip, just to be sure she was there. His fingers must have been icy, because she shivered. She must be freezing. They hadn't even pulled a blanket over them.
He cursed himself for a selfish fool.
"I'm sorry. I'll start a fire." He raised himself on one elbow, extending his other arm, hoping he could reach the bedside light.
"Don't." She stopped his arm with gentle fingers. "No fire. No lights." She rolled over, until her slim body was half on top of his. "We can make our own fire."
"But...I want to see you," he said. His voice sounded odd in the dark room. Why didn't she want him to turn on the lights? The cold had stabbed his chest, and he suddenly felt very afraid.
Or very angry.
"I don't think we should." She spoke softly, and he felt the motion of her head as she glanced toward the window, as if to check to see if any of the neighbors were awake yet.
That was all it took. Suddenly, he knew.
"You're not home to stay, are you?" Both the anger and the fear dripped from the question like icicles. "You're going away again."
She rolled even closer, until her torso was completely on top of him. Her hands tucked beneath his armpits, as she used her arms to lift her face several inches above his. Her eyes were cool, shining with blue moonlight. Her hair, which he now saw was still dyed that ridiculous shade of auburn-black, dangled like dark silk over her breasts and curled around her nipples.
In spite of his anger, he felt himself growing rigid all over again.
"Tell me," he insisted.
Slowly, she nodded. "I am going away again. I have to leave at first light." She paused. "I should go sooner, but."
She shifted her weight, and, with the sweep of one pale, graceful leg, she straddled his hips. His erection hardened, readying itself without his permission.
"But there's a little more time." She leaned down and kissed his jaw. "There's enough time, if you want it."
She moved, tilting her pelvis so that she came so close... If she scooted two inches higher, it would be enough. In the old days, he would have cupped her velvet ass with his hot palms and made it happen.
"Enough for what?" He sounded so cold. He sounded like someone else, someone who didn't love her. "For one more goodbye tumble?"
"Time to make love," she whispered, and the sweet sensuality in that voice was meant for the real Mitch, the old Mitch—not for this scarred and angry man beneath her now.
"What about protection?" He stared up at her, his face immobile. "Did you bring extra condoms, just in case? I mean, obviously you can't be sure where I've been these six months...who I might have slept with."
"Mitch, don't." She put her fingers against his lips. "There's so little time. Don't spoil it by being angry."
"But I am angry."
He made a harsh motion under her, and she understood. Tilting to one side, she slid off him and sat on the edge of the bed. For the first time, she tugged at the hem of the sheet and pulled it up to cover her nakedness.
He stood, ignoring his own exposed body. Nothing there she hadn't seen a thousand times. She'd seen it, possessed it, maddened it...and then rejected it.
"I'm going to take a shower," he said. "If you're still here when I get out, it had better mean you're ready to tell me what's going on. It had better mean you're ready to stay."
She looked at him, her expression numb and slack with pain. "I can't stay. You know that."
Tilting off his helmet with one hand, he twisted the key with the other, silencing the growling motorcycle before any of the adjoining guests woke up and complained. Although why they should sleep soundly when he knew darn well he wouldn't...
Still astride the bike, he stared at the dark windows of the cottage, envisioning the cold, half-empty spaces within. A bed. A sofa. A bookcase. A refrigerator full of bottled water and blackening guacamole dip. Six hours of tossing and turning...alone...till dawn, when he could finally get up and distract himself with work.
This was a life?
It was his choice, of course. He'd never been forced to be alone, not since he hit puberty and discovered that rusty-brown hair and a few freckles over a goofy grin actually appealed to some females.
He definitely hadn't needed to be alone tonight. At least fifty bored women from a cosmetics convention in Crawford had jammed into the Happy Horseshoe Saloon. Two-thirds of them were nice, half of them were hot and at least two of them were both.
But not one was interesting enough to take home.
He shoved his helmet into the storage bubble on the back of the bike, a little too roughly. He heard the fiberglass crack against the rim. He'd better watch out—he'd already fractured two helmets this way. He'd probably coil himself up so tight he'd break his own bones if he didn't find a woman soon.
Problem was, the only woman he wanted was the one he couldn't have.
Bonnie. His chest did a painful cramping thing, as if the two syllables were electric prods applied to his heart. Bonnie, he thought again, like the masochist he was, just to feel the reaction once more.
Bonnie O 'Mara. If that was even her name.
For one amazing year, the beautiful mystery woman had seemed like his own personal miracle. Turned out she was a mirage instead. Nearly nine months on the road together, running from something only she could see, and then, one morning, Mitch woke up and she was gone.
That was six months ago. So yeah—he needed someone new.
He inhaled deeply, the Colorado frost stinging his lungs. Too bad he didn't drink. His friends assured him that getting lightly buzzed could put a sparkle into even the dullest diamond.
But he'd tried that once, a few months ago, on his twenty-seventh birthday. He'd found a bottle of Johnnie Walker and a smart, lively redhead visiting from Crested Butte, and he'd mixed them together to see what happened.
He told himself it was allowed, darn it. He wasn't ready to be a monk just because True Love had spit in his face. At the very least, he owed it to himself to make sure his machinery still worked, right?
But—get this—he'd been bored to death. Apologizing as politely as he could, he'd left the confused woman after about five minutes and five kisses, already feeling the hangover churning in his stomach. He'd spent the rest of the night chucking big ugly rocks to see if he could bust a hole in frozen Silverbottom Pond. He'd only succeeded in scaring the deer.
So no more nights like that. The machinery could shrivel up and fall off before he'd repeat that pathetic fiasco.
Mitch rocked the bike up onto its kickstand, then took the steps to the cottage two at a time. If he had to go in, he might as well get it over with.
But the minute he opened the door, he froze. Something felt...different.
The house wasn't empty and still. Someone was here.
He left the lights off as he moved through the kitchen, using only the weak beams of the fingernail moon and the LED displays on the appliances to guide him. As he entered the living room, he picked up a poker from the fireplace, holding it over his shoulder like a baseball bat.
Then he heard a woman's voice, softly, from the darkness.
"Mitch?"
His grip went numb. The poker clattered from his hand. "Bonnie? "
A shadow near the sofa stirred. It formed into a human shape and then became a blur as she ran blindly toward him.
It was. It was Bonnie. He knew her silhouette. He knew her scent. He knew the way she ran and the way her boots lightly tapped across the hardwood floor.
He was only ten feet away. She crashed into him hard, wrapping her arms around him and burying her head in his chest. He had to take a step backward to balance against the collision.
For a split second, he was reminded of the desperate embraces he sometimes got from his nephew, Alec, when the boy was in pain. When the poor kid had run over a squirrel with his bike or found a dying baby bird, fallen from the nest.
But then, as Bonnie lifted her pale, moonlit face to his and smothered his cheeks, his chin...and finally his lips...with kisses, all thoughts of Alec evaporated.
All thoughts of anything evaporated.
His brain shut down entirely, his body taking over.
"Is it really you?" He dug his hands into her silken hair and pulled her as close as he could, close enough to smell her, taste her, own her. Close enough to make the six months of loneliness go away.
"Bonnie," he whispered against her mouth, and maybe she said his name again, or maybe she merely moaned. Her lips were wet where he'd moved over them and so warm. He dragged his kisses, hard and possessive, down the column of her throat and up again. His hands stroked her back, down to her hips, tracing the sweet curve he knew so well.
After so many dreams, so many ghost Bonnies that had come to tease him in the night, only to disappear just short of heaven, he had to convince himself she was real.
She was. He had no idea how this gift had come to him, but he was beyond questioning it now. He lifted her legs so that she nestled against the fire between his, and they both groaned, remembering.
He stumbled backward, not caring whether he was loud or clumsy. Not caring whether he broke everything in the cottage or whether he looked a fool. He kissed her as he walked. He bent his head to find her breasts, though he nearly killed them both as he keeled backward toward the wall.
He made his way, somehow, to the bedroom. He fell with her onto the bed. She was fumbling with his belt and with her own, and he was tearing buttons, hers and his, and shedding clothes and boots as fast as he could.
And there she was, open to him. The same—oh, heaven help him—exactly the same as his dreams. Her breasts were like snow in the moonlight, and he claimed them because they were his. They had always been his, whether she was in his bed or lost in some invisible nowhere.
He went lower, then lower still, as she wriggled under him, wrestling free of scraps of denim and lace. And then he couldn't take it anymore. He rose swiftly up on the heels of his hands, ready.
She fumbled with him, and he realized she was covering him with a condom. He groaned. Even that light touch was torture. And did they need this? She was on the pill...or had been.
Somehow she got it on, though her fingers trembled. When she finished, she lay back with a soft gasp and lifted her legs again, clasping them around his hips.
He had to have her. He didn't care why she felt they needed protection. Maybe she had been...or maybe she thought he had been.
He couldn't think. He couldn't slow himself down. He'd hungered for her so long. He'd been so unbearably alone.
He murmured her name once more. Then, though he knew it might be too soon, he drove into her, at once animal and poet. Master and slave.
Every inch of his body pulsed and burned. His rhythm was hard, fast, relentless, and he heard the tiny hitch in her breathing that meant she was ready. Her head tilted back, exposing her creamy throat. Her legs tightened. Her heels dug into him, asking for more.
He knew her. He knew what she wanted. A few deeper, more powerful thrusts, the wet nip of his lips against her hardening breasts—
Oh, yes, he knew her. She cried out, her back arching, her legs going limp. Seconds, minutes...no longer than that...and, with an agonized groan, he exploded, too. Liquid gold fire poured through his veins, dizzying him, weakening him, dislocating him from time and place.
It lasted forever, for both of them. Of course it did. The river of their passion had flooded behind the dam of separation. Six months of longing, pent up, roiling in powerful currents. Six months of heat and tension and pain.
Finally, he was empty, but amazingly she still shimmered around him, like a crystal bell that no longer rang but filled the air with an exquisite humming. She hadn't opened her eyes, and her breath was still shallow.
His Bonnie. He knew her. Tenderly, he touched two fingers between her legs, closing over the wet heat and coaxing the last invisible tremors free.
She shuddered helplessly, every sensation written on her beautiful face. He held on, poised above her, until finally, finally, her fierce internal pulses stilled. And then, unable to hold himself up an instant longer, he collapsed onto the bed beside her.
They lay together, with braided legs and tangled arms, palm against belly, cheek against breast, until the air grew cool around their sweaty bodies. She moved only once, stretching up to lift the glass he kept by his bed and taking a deep drink from it, as if she was parched.
Then, with a hum of satisfaction, as though the tepid liquid had been sweeter than simple water, she dropped back to his side and laid her head against his chest.
As he breathed in the daffodil, yellow-sky perfume of her hair, something inside him began to relax for the first time in six months. It wasn't just sex. Amazing as that had been, this was deeper than sex.
This was as deep as his soul. He smiled at himself, aware the poet lingered, even now that the animal was sated.
His soul had come back to him.
They dozed. Slept, even. Much later, he woke to a dark, frigid room. He closed his hand over her hip, just to be sure she was there. His fingers must have been icy, because she shivered. She must be freezing. They hadn't even pulled a blanket over them.
He cursed himself for a selfish fool.
"I'm sorry. I'll start a fire." He raised himself on one elbow, extending his other arm, hoping he could reach the bedside light.
"Don't." She stopped his arm with gentle fingers. "No fire. No lights." She rolled over, until her slim body was half on top of his. "We can make our own fire."
"But...I want to see you," he said. His voice sounded odd in the dark room. Why didn't she want him to turn on the lights? The cold had stabbed his chest, and he suddenly felt very afraid.
Or very angry.
"I don't think we should." She spoke softly, and he felt the motion of her head as she glanced toward the window, as if to check to see if any of the neighbors were awake yet.
That was all it took. Suddenly, he knew.
"You're not home to stay, are you?" Both the anger and the fear dripped from the question like icicles. "You're going away again."
She rolled even closer, until her torso was completely on top of him. Her hands tucked beneath his armpits, as she used her arms to lift her face several inches above his. Her eyes were cool, shining with blue moonlight. Her hair, which he now saw was still dyed that ridiculous shade of auburn-black, dangled like dark silk over her breasts and curled around her nipples.
In spite of his anger, he felt himself growing rigid all over again.
"Tell me," he insisted.
Slowly, she nodded. "I am going away again. I have to leave at first light." She paused. "I should go sooner, but."
She shifted her weight, and, with the sweep of one pale, graceful leg, she straddled his hips. His erection hardened, readying itself without his permission.
"But there's a little more time." She leaned down and kissed his jaw. "There's enough time, if you want it."
She moved, tilting her pelvis so that she came so close... If she scooted two inches higher, it would be enough. In the old days, he would have cupped her velvet ass with his hot palms and made it happen.
"Enough for what?" He sounded so cold. He sounded like someone else, someone who didn't love her. "For one more goodbye tumble?"
"Time to make love," she whispered, and the sweet sensuality in that voice was meant for the real Mitch, the old Mitch—not for this scarred and angry man beneath her now.
"What about protection?" He stared up at her, his face immobile. "Did you bring extra condoms, just in case? I mean, obviously you can't be sure where I've been these six months...who I might have slept with."
"Mitch, don't." She put her fingers against his lips. "There's so little time. Don't spoil it by being angry."
"But I am angry."
He made a harsh motion under her, and she understood. Tilting to one side, she slid off him and sat on the edge of the bed. For the first time, she tugged at the hem of the sheet and pulled it up to cover her nakedness.
He stood, ignoring his own exposed body. Nothing there she hadn't seen a thousand times. She'd seen it, possessed it, maddened it...and then rejected it.
"I'm going to take a shower," he said. "If you're still here when I get out, it had better mean you're ready to tell me what's going on. It had better mean you're ready to stay."
She looked at him, her expression numb and slack with pain. "I can't stay. You know that."
"About this title" may belong to another edition of this title.
- PublisherHarlequin Superromance
- Publication date2014
- ISBN 10 0373608748
- ISBN 13 9780373608744
- BindingPaperback
- Number of pages384
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