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Chapter One

How many fruit baskets did one girl need? If the answer was seven, well then, Maggie Newman was doing just fine. Ooh. She’d missed the bag of apricots from Elliot and his wife. So, that made eight? She fingered the cellophane-wrapped edge of one that boasted three ways to enjoy a golden delicious. As it fell from the tree, obviously, but what condolence gift would be complete without apple butter and, of course, a Dutch apple pie?

One basket even had an apple wearing a bandana and straw hat.

Maggie shook her head.

You could take the cowboy off the ranch, but…

It seemed folks in San Antonio expressed sorrow the same way they did up north—with food. Not that Maggie wasn’t grateful, just exhausted.

She snatched a peach from an open gift box and bit into it, letting the sweetness wash away the bitter taste in her mouth.

The neighborly assault-by-produce wasn’t as alarming as the letter next to the baskets on her granite counter. As Maggie hovered over it, juice fell from the just-ripe peach, staining its corner. Brushing it off, Maggie read it for the umpteenth time, even though she knew it by heart—a heart that struggled to catch up to what it all meant.

I hereby declare that this is my last will and testament…

Heat burned against the back of her eyes, but she wouldn’t cry. Not for this, she’d save her tears for the man himself. A man who’d died much too soon.

I appoint my daughter, Margaret Newman, as sole executor…

Maggie took another bite of the fruit and looked down to find a green June beetle sitting on the pit as if she’d disrupted his sleep. Nausea rolled through her chest and stomach even though the peach was the first thing she’d had since her vanilla bean espresso that morning. She tossed the fruit in the compost bin under her sink and fell into the overstuffed love seat looking out over the city.

Spread in front of her like a bounty was the city she’d come to call home. San Antonio was bright, loud, and an odd mix of thousand-dollar suits and ten-gallon hats, but she’d made it hers. Now, under the startling afternoon Texas sun, it almost looked fake, like a cartoon drawing of too much glass, too much light. Too much stuff.

San Antonio was the dream she and her father had shared—a life away from the struggles of a ranch and all the trappings that came with it. At one point in her early teens, she’d disagreed with him almost to the point of severing their relationship. But that was a long time ago. She was a different woman now, and her biggest supporter was gone.

Because he worked himself to death. For you.

She shoved the guilt down, hid it behind heartfelt memories.

Her dad showing up in San Antonio with a framed print of the logo she’d designed for Steel Born as a housewarming gift.

Playing chess with him on her patio, him shaking his hips for the upscale neighborhood to see when he’d whooped her two games in a row.

Hanging lights on her apartment door every Christmas, even though she argued that no one but her cranky neighbor could see them.

He’d wanted this for her as much as she needed it for herself.

She glanced away from the future—her future—taunting her behind the sixteen-foot glass windows like an exotic bird in a zoo, just out of reach and just as likely to fly away. Her gaze fell on the small rectangle of white that had changed everything.

The last line of the will reverberated in her head on a loop.

I bequeath to her all rights and ownership of Newman Ranch and Estates.

Like a salmon swimming against the current of the stream, Maggie was heading back to where she was raised. To where she learned to ride a horse, where she’d broken her first bone, and where her heart had shattered for the first—and she decided the last—time.

Why did you work so hard to help me leave? she asked of the man who’d raised her alone and left her behind the same way. Why did you guide me out into the world if you were only ever going to force me back to the ranch in the end?

To test the fire-suppression system you two designed? her subconscious offered.

No. They’d created the suppression system for her company, Steel Born, along with other ranching machinery that made SB an up-and-coming ranching supply company according to Ranching Magazine. Going home wasn’t ever part of its design.

Hell. Going home wasn’t part of any design.

She tapped into her contacts list on her phone, dialing her assistant, Jill. The woman had become a dear friend, blurring the line of professionalism, but no matter what, Jill always addressed Maggie as her boss when Maggie called during work hours.

“Yes, Ms. Newman?”