To Tame the Lonely Rancher
“People are afraid of you, aren’t they?”
Lucas gave her a long look. “Smart people.”
Elsie smiled. “Then I suppose I’m in trouble.”
On the agonizing anniversary of his brother’s death, solitary rancher Lucas Price only wants two things: hard labor and whiskey strong enough to numb his burning guilt. The last thing he needs is to find a drenched and wounded woman hiding in his barn with her son.
Widowed and penniless, Elsie Harrow will do anything to protect her son. When her late husband’s ruthless brother attempts to rip her son away, Elsie flees into the dark with no money, no plan, and nowhere left to turn. Breaking into a stranger’s barn was an act of pure desperation. She never expected the stern and imposing man who came with it.
Stranded together on his remote ranch, the line between danger and refuge begins to blur. Can a brooding cowboy running from his own past prove to a desperate mother that love isn’t another cage, or will the storm following her tear them apart?
Prologue
Bitterroot Valley, Montana
1889
Elsie Turner always said mornings were her favorite. The house felt happy and hopeful then, before the day’s noise got started. The sun came through the kitchen windows in soft stripes, warming the floorboards and catching little specks of dust floating in the air. It made the place look peaceful, if not expectant, as if it were holding its breath.
She stood at the counter rolling out dough and humming under her breath. Her four-year-old son, Isaac, sat on the floor nearby with his wooden horse, making it gallop across the rug. Every few minutes he’d look up to make sure she was watching, and she always was—even when she wasn’t.
“Ma,” he said, pushing the horse toward her foot, “look how fast he goes.”
Elsie smiled. “Oh, my. He’s near flying.”
“He’s racing Pa’s horse,” Isaac said proudly. “Pa’s horse is faster, but mine’s tryin’ real hard.”
“Well, that’s all a horse can do,” Elsie said, stifling a giggle. “Just try real hard.”
Isaac nodded like she’d said something profound. He pushed the toy across the floor again, making a soft whinnying sound.
Elsie finished shaping the pie crust and set it aside. Her husband, Henry, loved apple pie more than anything, and she’d made this one special. He’d been working too hard lately, traveling back and forth between towns for his family’s dry goods business. He always came home with a headache, rubbing his temples and trying to smile through it. She hated seeing him worn down like that.
He was young, but sometimes he looked older when he walked through the door after a long trip. She wanted today to be different. She wanted him to come home to something warm and sweet, something that reminded him he wasn’t alone in all that work.
Isaac crawled to her and tugged at her skirt. “Ma, when’s Pa coming home?”
“Soon,” she told him. “He said he’d be back before supper.”
“Is he bringing me something?”
Elsie laughed softly. “Maybe. He usually does.”
Isaac grinned wide. “Pa always brings me something,” he agreed. “Last time he brought me a candy. It was red.”
“I remember,” Elsie said. “You ate it in two bites.”
Isaac walked over, nodding proudly. “’Cause I’m big.”
“You sure are,” she said, brushing his hair back. “You’re real big.”
He ran back to his horse, galloping it across the floor again. Elsie slid the pie into the oven and wiped her hands on her apron. The house already smelled like cinnamon and butter. Henry would love it.
She moved to the window and looked out toward the road. The sky was clear, the kind of blue that made her think of summer even though it was only spring. A few birds hopped along the fence. Everything looked calm.
She hoped Henry felt calm too. He’d been gone for three days on a trip with one of his colleagues, Mr. Whitlow. They were supposed to meet a supplier about a new shipment of imported linens. Henry had been excited about it, talking about how it might help the business grow. He always talked about the future as if it were something he could shape for his family.
Elsie loved that about him. Loved the way he saw possibilities everywhere. Loved the way he kissed her cheek when he came home, whispering that he’d missed her even if he’d only been gone a day. Loved the way he scooped Isaac up and spun him around until the boy squealed.
She missed him. She always did.
Not because she was passionately in love with him. She loved Henry because he was a good man and he was good to her and to their son. He was an excellent provider and never failed to remember a birthday or an anniversary. But deep down, she had to admit it was like they were best friends with a child in common more than a husband and wife.
Isaac crawled onto a chair and leaned across the table. “Ma, can I have pie now?”
“No. It’s not done yet,” she replied. “And it’s Pa’s favorite. We’re waiting for him.”
“Oh.” Isaac sighed dramatically. “I’m hungry.”
“You can have a biscuit,” she said, chuckling as she handed him one from the tin.
He took it and munched happily, crumbs falling onto the table. Elsie brushed them aside and kept an eye on the oven.
There was a soft knock at the door and she frowned. Henry never knocked. He always came in calling her name, or Isaac’s, or both. She wiped her hands again and walked to the door, expecting maybe a neighbor or someone selling something.
She opened it.
It wasn’t Henry.
Mr. Whitlow stood on the porch, his hat in his hand, and his shoulders slumped. His face looked tired and pale, strained, like he’d been carrying something too heavy for too long. He didn’t meet her eyes at first.
“Mrs. Harrow,” he said quietly.
Elsie felt her stomach tighten. “Mr. Whitlow. Where’s Henry?”
His throat bobbed as he swallowed. Then, he looked past her into the house, then back at her, and she knew. She knew before he said anything that something was wrong. Terribly, terribly wrong.
“Ma?” Isaac called from the other room. “Is Pa home?”
Elsie’s breath caught. “Just a minute, sweetheart.”
She stepped outside and closed the door behind her, her heart pounding.
“Tell me,” she whispered.
Mr. Whitlow looked down at his hat, twisting it in his hands. “We were coming back from the deal. Everything went fine. We actually made a huge sale. Henry was talking and laughing, just like always. And then… he just… he collapsed.”
Elsie stared at him. The words weren’t making any sense. They didn’t fit together. Henry didn’t collapse. Henry was stronger than that. Henry was young. Henry was a father.
“I got help immediately, and we rushed him to the doctor,” Mr. Whitlow said, his voice breaking. “But it was too late.”
Elsie felt the world tilt. She grabbed the porch railing to steady herself.
“I’m so sorry,” Mr. Whitlow said softly, obviously taking the news hard himself. “The doctor said it was most likely his heart. A heart attack.”
“No,” she whispered. “No, that’s not possible. He—he’s only thirty years old.”
“I know,” Mr. Whitlow agreed. “The doc said it could also be something to do with his brain. I don’t recall what he called it. But said it can come on suddenly. A person would be fine one minute and… not fine the next.”
Elsie shook her head. “No. No, he-he was fine. He was just a little tired, is all. He gets headaches. But he-he was fine.”
“I’m sorry, Elsie,” Mr. Whitlow said. “I’m so sorry.”
Elsie felt her knees weaken. She pressed a hand to her mouth, trying to hold back her sobs. She couldn’t breathe. The air felt thin, too thin to drag in a decent breath. Her chest hurt. Her eyes burned.
Behind the door, Isaac was calling again. “Ma? Is Pa home now?”
Elsie closed her eyes. The sound of her son’s voice cut her to the quick.
She couldn’t answer him. She couldn’t speak. She couldn’t think.
Mr. Whitlow stepped forward and put his hand on her arm to steady her. “Is there someone I can fetch for you? A relative? A neighbor?”
Elsie shook her head. “No. No, I—”
Her voice broke. She pressed her hand harder against her mouth, trying to hold herself together.
Henry was gone.
Gone.
The word echoed in her mind. He wouldn’t be coming home to eat the pie she just made for him. He wouldn’t be scooping Isaac off the floor and tossing him over his head. And he wouldn’t be playing with little horses on the floor. Slowly, it sank in. And she could feel it rooting deep in her bones, cold and merciless.
She squeezed her eyes shut. What was she going to do?
She had Isaac. She had the house. She had bills. She had a life built around Henry’s steady presence, his laughter, his gentle hands, his plans for the future.
And now—
“Ma?” Isaac called again, louder this time. “Ma, where’s Pa?”
Elsie opened her eyes. She looked at the door. She looked at Mr. Whitlow. Then, she looked past him at the quiet road stretching out in front of the house.
Her entire world had changed in a single moment.
She didn’t know how to step back inside and resume her life. She didn’t know how to tell her son that his father was gone. She didn’t even know how to breathe.
But she had to.
She had to.
Elsie wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, straightened her shoulders, and looked at Mr. Whitlow. “Where is my husband’s body, Mr. Whitlow?”
“At Stevensville,” Mr. Whitlow said softly. “They’ve washed him and covered him. I came to see whether you want him brought home.”
“No,” Elsie said. “I’ll fetch him myself. Thank you for coming to let me know.”
Mr. Whitlow nodded. “Let me know if you need anything, Elsie. Me and Jenny will be happy to help.”
“Thank you,” she murmured, then opened the door and went inside.
Isaac stood in the hallway holding his wooden horse, eyes bright with hope.
“Ma,” he said, “is Pa home?”
Elsie’s voice trembled. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. He’s going to be gone a while longer.”
Isaac walked toward her, small and trusting, unaware that his entire life had just broken.
Elsie knelt and pulled him close, holding him tight, feeling his warm little body against her chest. She didn’t speak. She couldn’t. She just held him, rocking him gently, trying to keep herself from falling apart.
Isaac looked up at her, confused. “Ma?”
Elsie pressed her cheek to his hair. She didn’t know how to tell him. She could barely believe it herself. She didn’t know how to live in a world where Henry wasn’t ever coming again. But she would have to learn.
For Isaac.
For herself.
And for the life Henry had loved so fiercely.
Elsie held her son tighter, the smell of apple pie drifting from the kitchen behind them, sweet and warm and unbearably cruel.
She stayed there on her knees until Isaac grew restless in her arms and began to squirm. He was too young to understand death, too young to understand that his father was gone forever. He patted her cheek with his small hand, the wooden horse pressed between them.
“Ma, you’re squeezin’ me,” he whispered.
Elsie loosened her grip at once. “I’m sorry, baby.”
“Ma,” he groaned. “I’m not a baby.”
She forced her mouth into something like a smile, though it trembled so badly she had to look away. “You’ll always be a baby to your ma.”
He huffed in response.
From the kitchen came the faint hiss of juice bubbling over the edge of the pie plate. The smell, which had been so comforting only a few minutes ago, now turned her stomach. She stood carefully, her legs unsteady beneath her, and crossed to the stove. With a cloth wrapped around her hand, she pulled the pie free and set it on the table.
The crust was shiny and golden, perfect in spite of everything. Henry would have praised it. He would have cut Isaac a slice too large and winked when she scolded him for it. He would have cut the next slice for himself and taken an enormous bite. Then he would have proclaimed it delicious and said she made the best pie in the whole county.
She pressed both palms flat against the table and bowed her head. Not yet, she told herself. She could not fall apart yet. There were things to be done. A wagon had to be readied. Someone would need to sit with Isaac. She needed to go see their pastor. Henry would need clean clothes and his Sunday coat. The blue neckcloth she liked on him.
She could picture every article folded in the trunk at the foot of their bed, and the thought struck her with such force that she had to bite the inside of her cheek to keep from crying out.
“Ma?” Isaac asked again, quieter now. Children seemed to know things even when no one spoke them aloud.
Elsie turned and crouched before him again. “I have to go into Stevensville,” she told him gently. “Pastor Glenn is going to help me.”
“Can I come?”
Her throat tightened. “No, my love. Not this time.”
His lower lip pushed out. “Is Pa there?”
Elsie closed her eyes for half a second. “Yes,” she said, because it was the only truth she could give him. “Pa is there.”
“Tell him I waited for pie,” Isaac said solemnly, as if that were very important.
A sound broke from her then, almost a laugh and almost a sob. She kissed his forehead and smoothed his hair.
“I’ll tell him,” she whispered.
She rose and went to the bedroom. Every step felt strange, as if she were walking through a house that belonged to someone else. Henry’s boots stood beside the bed where he’d left them. His shaving cup sat on the washstand. His coat hung from the peg, empty but shaped by him still.
Elsie took it down and held it to her chest for one brief, forbidden moment. It smelled like him—wool, pipe smoke, and peppermint drops that he kept in his pocket for Isaac.
She sat down for a moment with the coat, then she folded it over her arm, took the neckcloth from the drawer, and shut the trunk before her courage could fail.
“Let’s go see Pastor Glenn and Mrs. Emily,” she told Isaac when she returned with Henry’s things.
That was good enough for Isaac. He jumped to his feet, excited to be going somewhere, anywhere. They stepped outside, and Elsie held the door.
The road to Stevensville waited, ordinary as ever beneath the late morning light. But somewhere at the end of it, Henry lay beneath a clean covering, waiting for her to bring him home.
Elsie lifted her chin, wiped her face once more, and called for Isaac to fetch his cap. If she couldn’t spare him sorrow, she could at least keep him happy and innocent until the last possible moment.
She took a deep breath, then let it out slowly.
The day had started like any other.
And now nothing would ever be the same again.
Chapter One
Bitterroot Valley, Montana
1891
“Ma,” Isaac said, holding up his slate. “How’s this?”
Elsie bit back a grin. “Well, I don’t know. Is it right?”
Isaac twisted his lips. “Yes?”
“Well, let’s see,” she said, dropping her sewing in her lap and leaning over to look at his work. “Six minus four. So, if you had six apples and gave four of them to Anna, how many would you have left?”
His little face pinched as he mentally pored over the question. He’d actually written the right answer on his slate, but he didn’t seem sure that it was correct. She wondered, not for the first time, whether he’d learn better in school. She’d chosen to teach him at home after Henry died. At least, for the time being. He’d taken his pa’s death very hard and didn’t like to be away from her.
“Two!” he shouted proudly.
“Very good,” she said, stroking his hair. “Now, do the next one.”
She watched as he took on the next problem. Two years had passed since Henry’s death, and Elsie still woke some mornings expecting to hear his boots on the porch. She’d lie there for a moment, listening to the quiet house, waiting for the familiar sound of his voice. But of course, it never came. Instead, the silence would come back, heavy as ever.
She’d learned to live with it. Not well, but enough to keep going.
The small house she and Henry had lived in still stood, though it needed repairs—repairs that she could no longer afford. The roof leaked in the kitchen. The porch steps sagged. The oven was broken. And the paint had faded to a dull, tired gray. But it was hers. Hers and Isaac’s. She clung to that fact like a lifeline. As long as she had the house, they weren’t completely lost.
Henry’s family had cut her off from everything else. No money. No support. No kindness. They’d sent a single letter after the funeral, cold and formal, stating that the Harrow estate could no longer extend her financial assistance.
She remembered how her hands had trembled as she read it, how the words had blurred until they became nothing but dark marks on the page. It had not only frightened her, but it had also shamed her, as though she and Isaac had become an inconvenience they no longer wished to deal with.
For days afterward, the thought of that letter sat heavy with her, harder to bear than any hunger. Colder than the empty rooms around her. She’d read it twice, then folded it and put it away in a drawer that she never opened again.
With no steady income, Elsie had taken in seamstress work. She’d worked part-time before in a shop owned by her friend’s mother. She was mending shirts, hemming skirts, stitching quilts, and even sewed new dresses for some of the local women. She didn’t make much, but it was enough to keep food on the table. Just barely. If she was careful with every penny.
Her neighbor and closest friend, Anna, helped more than anyone else. Anna worked long hours at her mother’s shop, but she still came over in the evenings to watch Isaac while Elsie sewed. Sometimes, she’d even help with the sewing. She and Isaac adored her.
“Ma, look at this one,” Isaac said.
Elsie looked over, reading the question out loud. “If you have five pieces of candy and Jenny gives you five more, how many pieces will you have?”
“Ten!” he shouted victoriously. “Can I play now?”
Elsie chuckled. “Yes. Go ahead,” she said. “We’ll work on your spelling before bedtime.”
Elsie sat at the kitchen table with a pile of mending in front of her. She pricked her finger twice with the needle before she finally sighed and set it down. Her eyes were tired. Her hands were tired. Everything felt tired.
Isaac sat on the floor nearby, building a tower out of wooden blocks. He was six now, tall and smart, and more aware of the world around him. He didn’t talk about Henry much anymore, but sometimes he’d ask questions that made Elsie’s heart ache.
“Ma,” he said, balancing a block on top of the tower, “do you think Pa would be proud of me?”
Elsie swallowed. “Yes. I know he would.”
Isaac smiled proudly. “I’m making this for him. It’s real tall.”
“It sure is,” she said adoringly. “You’re very good at that.”
He nodded, then knocked the tower over with a sweep of his hand. The blocks scattered across the floor. Isaac laughed.
“I’m going to start over,” he explained.
Elsie managed a small smile. She loved that sound. His happy, innocent laugh. It reminded her that not everything was broken.
There was a light knock at the front door before it swung open wide, and Anna stepped inside, brushing something from her skirt. Her hair was pinned up loosely, strands falling around her face. Elsie thought Anna was beautiful. But she looked tired now, too. Even so, she always smiled when she saw Isaac.
“Hello, trouble,” she said, bending down to ruffle his hair before setting a basket on the counter.
Isaac giggled and hugged her legs.
Anna straightened and looked at Elsie. “How’s the sewing?”
Elsie sighed. “Slow. My fingers feel like they’re made of stone. Until I poke them with the needle, of course.”
Anna glanced at the pile of clothes and sighed. “At least it’s a smaller pile than the last time I was here.”
“Maybe,” Elsie huffed. “It seems like it just keeps growing to me.”
“That’s because folks keep bringing you more work.” She giggled. “That’s a good thing.”
“I reckon,” Elsie said quietly. “Sometimes it feels like it’s too much. Other times, it’s barely enough.”
Anna’s smile faded. She stepped closer and lowered her voice. “You’re keeping a roof over your heads. And food on the table. That’s more than some can say.”
“Well, the roof leaks and sometimes I don’t eat so that he can,” Elsie replied glumly.
“And that’s when you should walk over and knock on our door,” Anna told her. “You know my mother would gladly feed you and Isaac.”
Elsie nodded, though the words didn’t ease the knot in her chest. “I know she would. But I just hate asking.”
“She doesn’t mind. And neither does Pa.” Anna took off her shawl and hung it on the hook. “I can stay for a few hours. You finish what you can. Isaac and I will play. Then Ma will send over some supper for you.”
Elsie opened her mouth to thank her, but a sharp knock at the door cut her off.
Anna froze. Isaac looked up.
“I’ll get it,” Isaac said.
“No, you won’t,” Elsie replied, feeling her stomach knot. “You’ll wait for me.”
Anna leaned down quickly. “Isaac, come with me.”
She scooped him up and carried him toward his room. Isaac protested, but Anna whispered something to him, and he quieted. When she saw they were gone, Elsie tidied her skirt and walked to the door. She hesitated for a moment, then opened it.
Victor Harrow stood on the porch.
Henry’s brother.
Elsie’s breath caught. She hadn’t seen him in years. Not even at Henry’s funeral. And not after. Because he hadn’t come. He’d only sent a letter claiming he was abroad on business. She’d never believed it but reckoned he’d have to live with that on his conscience. She wouldn’t bring it up.
Now, he was here. And not happy about it, by the look on his face. Victor had never liked her. He’d never liked that Henry had married outside the Harrow circle or that Elsie came from a modest family instead of one with money and prestige. And he’d never been shy about making his feelings known. Even to her. Especially to her.
Behind him stood his wife, Vivienne. Viv was dressed in a fine traveling gown, her gloves buttoned neatly, and her hat pinned perfectly. She looked at the house as though she’d stepped into a place that totally offended her senses. Her nose lifted slightly, as if she smelled something unpleasant.
Elsie swallowed hard. “Victor. Vivienne. Welcome. I… I didn’t expect—”
“No,” Victor said, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. “I imagine you didn’t.”
Vivienne stayed near the door, refusing to step farther into the house. Her eyes swept the room with thinly veiled disdain.
Elsie closed the door slowly. “Would you like to sit?”
“No,” Victor said. “This won’t take long.”
Elsie’s pulse quickened. “What’s this about?”
Victor turned to face her fully. His expression was cold and unreadable. “I’ve come for Isaac.”
Elsie stared at him, sure she’d heard him incorrectly. She couldn’t speak. His words hadn’t made any sense. They didn’t fit together.
“What?” she whispered.
“Isaac is a Harrow,” Victor said. “He belongs with family.”
“No.” Elsie felt her knees weaken. “He belongs with me.”
“Let’s be realistic.” Victor’s mouth tightened. “You have no stable income. No support. And soon, no home.”
Elsie was confused. She was making money with her sewing. Not a lot, but some. And of course, she had a home. He was standing in it. “What are you talking about?”
Victor glanced around the room, as though assessing it. “Henry’s death was unexpected. Without a will, the house defaults to the Harrow estate. To me.”
Elsie felt the room spin. “No. Henry was my husband. He bought this house for us.”
“With Harrow money,” Victor said coldly. “Which means it was never yours.”
Elsie shook her head. “You can’t do this.”
“I can,” Victor said. “And I will.”
Vivienne spoke for the first time, her voice smooth and cold. “It’s for the best, Elsie. Isaac needs proper guidance and a respectable education. He deserves a suitable mother.”
“And who would that be?” Elsie snapped. “You?”
Viv’s eyebrows rose, and she pursed her lips.
“No, thank you.” Elsie’s heart pounded. “I’ve raised him just fine.”
Victor’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not fit to raise a Harrow. You don’t have the background or social standing. Or the pedigree.”
Elsie couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She knew he never approved of her. She knew that it was expected of Henry to marry well. But whether Victor liked her or not, she was Isaac’s mother. “He’s my son.”
“He’s Henry’s son,” Victor corrected. “And Henry was a Harrow. Just like me. Isaac should be raised by a Harrow. My wife will see to his daily needs. And I will oversee his upbringing to ensure it meets Harrow standards.”
Elsie’s voice broke. “I won’t let you take my son.”
“You don’t have a choice, Elsie.” Victor stepped closer. “I’ll give you one day to pack the boy’s things and prepare him. Say your goodbyes. I’ll return tomorrow to take possession of him and reclaim the house. I’ll have the sheriff with me.”
Take possession of him?
Elsie’s breath turned shallow. “Victor, please. Henry was your brother.”
“That’s exactly my point,” he said firmly. “Now, there’ll be no need for you to worry about how you’ll care for him. No more scraping to feed him and pay the bills. You’re young enough. You can remarry and have other children. Start fresh.”
Elsie stared, speechless. No matter how cold‑hearted Victor was, she couldn’t believe he truly thought she could cast off her own son and simply start over. The notion hit her like a slap in the face. Why was he doing this to her? What kind of man believed a mother could replace her child as if he were a worn‑out shoe? The very idea turned her stomach.
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Such a sad start to Elsie and Isaac’s story. Please don’t leave them completely destitute, Isaac also needs something of his dad’s to take when they leave. I’m hoping that you’ll give her a backbone to stand up to Nasty Victor and Supercilious Vivianne. Looking forward to the book release.
Thank you.