Wild Heart Summer

  Contents

  Title Page

  Wild Heart Summer

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Letter to Reader

  Preview of A Sugar Creek Christmas

  Chapter One A Sugar Creek Christmas

  Special Thanks

  About the Author

  Wild Heart Summer

  A Sugar Creek Novella

  Jenny B. Jones

  Wild Heart Summer

  Twenty-one year old Avery Crawford has had to fight for everything in her life, and this summer is no exception. When her culinary internship in a chic restaurant falls through at the last minute, she gets an unexpected offer to work on a dude ranch in the quaint town of Sugar Creek. The problem? The ranch is owned by the grandfather she's been kept from all her life.

  Avery is completely out of her element with the cattle drives, trail rides, and most of all, cute ranch manager Owen Jackson. Not in the market for romance, Avery still finds herself tempted by the cowboy’s Southern charm and sweet kisses. But as secrets unravel on the ranch, Avery will have to let go of the old wounds if she wants to hold onto the love Owen offers her. When the summer’s over, Avery must risk it all— or lose much more than her heart.

  ©Copyright 2015 Jenny Jones

  Sweat Pea Productions

  Previously published in the collection Just One Summer, ©Copyright 2015

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  Preview of A Sugar Creek Christmas, ©Copyright 2014 Jenny Jones

  No part of this book maybe used or reproduced in any manner without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Cover Design: Kelli Standish, Pulse Point Design

  Design Images: BigStock Photo

  For information contact:

  [email protected]

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  Chapter One

  I had so wanted this year to be different.

  Hadn’t I done everything I could to put that into motion? Eaten black-eyed peas on New Year’s—with watering eyes and gag reflexes fully engaged. Made a wish over my twenty-first birthday cake, a wish so lovely, so dotted with audacious hope, not breathing until every dancing flame surrendered. And every time I’d eaten Chinese food in the last six months? I’d basically won the fortune cookie lottery. I’d also won a few rounds of indigestion, but it’s not like that should’ve canceled out anything.

  And still here I was. Living yet another day of catastrophe on this first afternoon of June. As if fate got a sick thrill from spitting all over my fiery better intentions.

  My mother said I’d been born under an unlucky moon, when Venus was in retrograde or giving Mercury the bird—something like that. But she’d also said my biological father was a NASA astronaut who’d sacrificed himself to live on the moon and start a new colony. By the age of ten, I’d changed my mind on which statement I actually believed.

  “Joss, can you hear me?” I’m checking in with my best friend, holding my phone to my cheek with my shoulder and walking down the tiniest airport concourse, en route to get my luggage. I speak louder over the din. “You gotta see this airport. It’s cute and all, but I’m pretty sure it’s in the middle of a cow field.” I know we flew over barns and cattle. I have pictures to prove it. “Tell me again where you said you’re spending your summer break.”

  “We’re not talking about me,” she says. “We’re talking about the fact that you’re losing your mind.”

  “I’m not losing my mind. I’m visiting Arkansas.”

  “Same thing.”

  I feel a tiny stab of annoyance on behalf of the state I’d just landed in. It wasn’t like I was from here. Well, technically I was born in Little Rock, Arkansas, but a few months of residency did not a bond make. I’d moved all over the country, finally landing in Washington state in middle school, where I met Joss, Darby, and Sydney, the girls who would become my best friends and the sisters I’d never had. This is the first summer we aren’t spending time together at Joss’s cabin, our retreat away from it all, and I’m more than depressed about that.

  “I don’t understand,” she says. “The girls and I thought you were doing your summer culinary internship at a fancy restaurant in Chicago.”

  “It got cancelled at the last minute.” And if I wanted to pass my program and be eligible for the senior year in France, I had to take whatever the school offered me. “The only internship open was the Shadow Dude Ranch.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me. The one your grandfather owns?”

  I prefer to refer to him as my Mother’s Former Father. “The one and only.”

  “And that job just came up? Just like that?”

  “I guess he’s been keeping tabs on me lately and contacted my school about the opportunity. I’m desperate here. I’m just going to complete my eight weeks, cook for some ranch hands, and stay out of Mitchell Crawford’s way.”

  “This is a lot to take in,” my friend says.

  “I know.” I walk down a set of stairs. “I’ve had to eat a lot of Cheetos over this.”

  “I meant for me to take in. I can’t keep up with your drama. First John Mark cheats on you and now this?”

  “We’re not talking about John Mark. Ever.” Two weeks ago I’d been on top of the world, dating the student government president at Bethel College in New York, only to find out his election motto of “I will do all I can to serve the student body” was being put to good use on a blonde and busty Kappa Delta. Never trust a sixth-year poetry major.

  “You still haven’t given us all the details,” Joss reminds me.

  “I’m aware of that. It’s not worth mentioning. I need to put it out of my mind, ignore every college guy on the planet, and throw myself into—”

  “Avery Crawford?”

  At this unfamiliar new voice, my phone-carrying hand drops. I’m intercepted at the bottom stairs by one tall, dark, and newly declared off-limits member of the male species.

  “Yes?” Somewhere it registers that a plaintive voice streams from my phone, but I manage to power the device off. It’s hard to do anything but stare into eyes as blue as sea glass and full lips that smile with a dimpled promise of sweet church picnics on Sunday and roving hands in the backseat the night before.

  His smile deepens, and I inwardly sigh. I just decide to give up men, and of course, the cover model for Southern Hot Gents purrs my name.

  “I’m from Shadow Ranch.” Mr. Dimples sticks out his hand. “Owen Jackson.”

  “Hi.” It’s hard not to smile back, b
ut I mostly accomplish it. I give him a polite stretch of the lips, but nothing flirty, nothing that says I think he’s, unfortunately, quite beautiful.

  “Did you have a good flight?” Owen’s accent hearkens back to days of cowboys and front porch sitting.

  “I did. I got a lot of work done.” Like reading three People magazines, eating two candy bars, and composing my own poem to my ex titled, “I Hope You Get a Rash That Rots Off Your Naughty Bits.”

  “Your grandpa mentioned you were in a culinary program at school.” Owen says. “He’s really proud of you.”

  I have no trouble not smiling at this bit of ridiculousness. Sweet twang or not, Owen’s words could not be further from the truth. “Mitchell Crawford is not my grandfather,” I manage. “He’s my temporary boss.”

  Beneath a University of Arkansas baseball cap, Owen’s face goes still and neutral, as if I’ve just requested a stop for tampons on our way out. “Well.” He tilts his head and looks down at my five-foot-six form as if he wants to say more. But doesn’t. “I’m your ride to the ranch. Why don’t we get your bags?”

  Great idea. The sooner we get this started, the sooner it will all be over.

  Chapter Two

  “Arkansas is not what I’d expected.” I gaze out the passenger window of Owen’s Ford truck and take in the mix of city and country. We’d passed chicken houses. We’d passed a Pottery Barn.

  “This part of the state is really booming.” Owen navigates the black truck over a bridge, and I read the sign that welcomes me to Sugar Creek in strong, bold letters. “The ranch is about ten miles from here on the outskirts of town. Really not even in the Sugar Creek city limits.”

  I knew from things my mom told me that Mitchell’s property is large enough to be its own settlement. “How many acres did you say he has?”

  Owen gives a two-fingered wave to a woman pushing a stroller on the sidewalk. “About a thousand where you’ll be.”

  “You mean there’s more?”

  Owen takes his eyes off the road to look at me. “You really don’t know much about him, do you?”

  “What I know about him really isn’t too redeeming. I’m here to work and to get credit for my internship. This isn’t going to be some happy family reunion.” I instantly regret the bitterness in my tone. Between the drama I left behind in New York and this, I can’t seem to tamper it down.

  “Give Mitchell a chance.” Owen turns the radio station to a song that’s as country as the boots he’s wearing. “I’d hate for you to miss out on something just because of old mistakes. You never know what the summer might hold.”

  Old mistakes? Old mistakes were side-ponytails on picture day and not giving the computer nerd in seventh grade a second glance. Old mistakes were sneaking out the house with the captain of the football team or eating strawberries before you realized they made your lips swell like an aging, plastic Hollywood diva. What Mitchell Crawford had done went so far beyond that. “Cooking and getting credit for a college class,” I say. “That’s all this summer will hold.”

  In a matter of minutes, the smooth, paved road gives way to dirt and gravel, and clouds of dust billow behind Owen’s truck. Or maybe it was clouds of my anxiety, chasing our vehicle down, swirling around us and entreating me to turn back.

  Owen taps his fingers on the steering wheel to the beat of the music as we amble down a long drive with fencing running on either side of us.

  “What’s that?” I point to a newer-looking structure, a sprawling two-story cedar cabin large enough to house an NFL football team. Six or seven smaller cabins surround it.

  “The big building is the lodge. That’s where the main kitchen is, where a lot of our activities are held. The others are the dude ranch cabins where people stay.”

  “Is one of them yours?” Owen had already told me he lived on the ranch. He alluded to being a manager of some sort, but of what exactly, I’m not sure. “Do all the employees live here?”

  “No.” Owen frowns, his dark brown brows slanting low. “Did you read the information I sent you on the ranch?”

  “Of course I did.” I mean, in the last-minute rush, I’d read the names and addresses on the envelope the information had been mailed in. That had been all I’d really needed to know.

  “Then you’re totally clear on what you’ll be doing?”

  “Clear as spring water.” See, I was already hip to this Southern slang.

  “How many guests will you be feeding?”

  “Guests?”

  He gives me the side eye. “Tell me what happens every Friday night.”

  “You go out with a local lassie and share a burger and fries?”

  Owen brakes the truck, and my body lurches forward.

  Gone was the sweet, amiable guy who’d picked me up at the airport. “Do you seriously not know what you’ve gotten into?”

  Is he going to make me walk the rest of the way if I don’t get this question right?

  “Mitchell is a cattle rancher with some horses.” I try to recall what my mom had once said. “My advisor mentioned he has about twenty-five people on his payroll, so I’ll be cooking for them. For you. For you hard-working cowpokes.” What is a cowpoke? Did I want to use that term? Was it now offensive to the farming community who might not want their good names associated with poking?

  Owen settles his hand on the back of my headrest and leans my way. I can’t help but inhale his scent of spice and outdoors. Mixed with a little eau de frustration.

  “Mitchell expanded his property into more commercial pursuits five years ago.” Owen’s eyes hold mine steady. “Are you tracking with me?”

  “I really intended to read that packet of info you sent me, but in all fairness I only received it a few days ago.” I’d seen Mitchell Crawford’s name on the envelope, and it had just added to my depressive descent. “I’m still highly qualified to do this job.”

  “You don’t even know what your job is. You’re not just cooking for a bunch of ranch hands. You’re the main chef and primary overseer of the kitchen for our dude ranch property.”

  “What does that mean?”

  His lightly-stubbled jaw tightens. “It means we open up the ranch to guests. Lots of them. They go out every day for different activities, and you feed them.”

  “Like a rustic B&B?”

  Owen’s lips twitch like he’s tasting a bitter berry. “We’re not some frilly bed and breakfast.”

  “How many people am I feeding?”

  “Twenty-five to thirty guests every day and about twenty employees. Three meals a day, sometimes taken in the dining hall and sometimes on the road. In the mornings, you have an additional twenty ranch hands who stop in for breakfast. It’s one of the perks Mitchell offers them before they go out and tend to his other assets.”

  That’s a lot of people. I’ve never cooked for that many folks at once.

  “Look, Avery, if you can’t do this, tell me now. Pearl, our retiring cook, is only sticking around two or three more days to train you, then she’s done. We’ll have no one until Pearl’s replacement arrives after you leave.”

  “I’m not bailing.” I’m trying not to be offended at Owen’s bothersome frown, but I’m pretty sure I’m wearing a similar expression myself. “Okay, I can do this.” It’s only two months. “I have my own recipes, I emailed someone my grocery lists last week, and I’m familiar with the kitchen equipment.” I pat Owen’s knee. “Your Pearl sent me photos of the kitchen.” I had noticed it was a little on the big side.

  “You didn’t read one thing about the job, but you requested pictures of your stove?”

  “Pretty much.”

  Owen is not impressed.

  “A few weeks out of each summer we have some very special guests—kids. They might have specific dietary requirements. You do know about that, right?”

  I twirl my long, black ponytail. “Of course.”

  My handsome driver is not buying it.

  He jerks the truck back into drive and put us into
motion. One hundred more fence posts, and we arrive at what could only be called a mansion. No rustic wooden siding here.

  “Here we are,” Owen says. “Are you ready for this? I’m not going to find you at midnight climbing out your bedroom window on a rope made of bedsheets, am I?”

  I stare at the main house, with its two stories of red brick, more windows than I can count, and four giant columns that hold it all together with mortar and Southern pride.

  This was the home my mother had grown up in. Had told me about.

  Then she’d escaped. And never looked back.

  Mitchell made sure of that.

  Inside that house was my grandfather. “Maybe we could just sit here a minute.” My voice wavers.

  “We could.” Owen unbuckles his seatbelt. “Or we could go inside. I promise I’ll be right beside you.”

  I shut my eyes and let those words repeat in my head because I’m a little weary of doing everything by myself. Weary of a lot of things.

  “He knows you already,” Owens says. “He’s got your picture plastered all over his office.”

  “I’ve never even met him. He and my mom . . . ” I press my lips together, silencing the rest of the story. Something about those eyes of Owen’s just make a girl want to tell him her every care. “Never mind. Let’s get this over with.”

  “That’s exactly what I told the pigs yesterday when I took them to the sale barn.”

  I pull my worried gaze from the house. “I’m not really up on my farm humor.”

  “It was in the packet.”

  Before I can unbuckle and grab my bag, he hops out of the truck and opens my door.

  “This is really not necessary,” I say.

  His warm fingers close over mine as he helps me down. “Welcome to ranch life, Avery. And unless I want your grandfather to skin me”—he tips the brim of his ball cap—“manners are always necessary.”