Sabrina Says

By Louise Crawford Ramona Butler

Nevadan Rusty Daniels and his brothers run the 3-D ranch. Rusty’s also a part-time sheriff, full-time rancher, and always on the run or in a friendly knuckle-bruiser with one of his two brothers. But when Sabrina Sayers blows into Stagecoach, his life turns into a series of pratfalls as he tries to impress the divorcee. All the while, his older brother Clay warns him she’s a city woman just like Rusty’s one-time fiancee, and that he’s in for trouble. Sabrina, the ink on her divorce papers barely dry, is staying with her Grandmother Aggie in a monstrous old mansion that needs more than a coat of paint. Rusty is only too happy to help out. Her twin eight-year-old girls love Stagecoach, and Rusty, but she isn’t so easily won over. Rusty looks too much like her ex-husband – a phony Hollywood cowboy. Just as her defenses go down, her ex shows up in Nevada, throwing more sparks in the works.

• Language: English
• Publisher: L.F. Crawford
• Release date: Aug 5, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466026049

Louise Crawford Ramona Butler

L.F. Crawford started writing science fiction and fantasy 20 years ago. She then went on to write suspense, thrillers, chick-lit mysteries, and romance. Her latest suspense novels can be found at www.mundania.com or www.newconceptspublishing.com or on Amazon.

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SABRINA SAYS

Copyright © Louise Crawford, Ramona Butler, 2011

Smashwords Edition ISBN 978-1-4660-2604-9

Cover art by Louise Crawford

For other books by Crawford and/or Butler: http://www.LouiseCrawfordbooks.com or http://www.LFCrawford.com or http://www.RamonaButler.com

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted to any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

Chapter One

WANTED: SINGLE LADIES. Please send your picture and write to: Three Lonesome Cowboys, PO Box 58, Stagecoach, Nevada.

What the hell? Rusty Daniels swerved his shiny new four-by-four pickup off the road and out of the crush of traffic. Open-mouthed, he stared at the gigantic billboard erected on the hillside above Highway 395. No one who traveled the main artery between Reno and Carson City could miss it.

Those idiots!

He didn’t know whether to cuss or laugh until his new steel-belted radials fell off. I’ll have their heads for this!

The damned sign was almost as big as Lake Tahoe. His brother couldn’t be satisfied with a cute personal ad in some sleazy tabloid that nobody ever read. Oh, no! Whenever Zack Daniels did things, he did them in a BIG way. And Rusty was certain, responsibility for this blight on the sagebrush-covered landscape lay with Zack, not older brother Clay.

A couple of other vehicles had followed him off the highway, the drivers and passengers now climbing out to gawk. Point. Laugh. Speculate. Thank God none of them recognized him; or connected that postal box with the 3-D Ranch.

He shook his head, chuckling as he turned back to his truck. Li’l brother Zack was a trial, but his antics certainly kept life interesting. Rusty was only vaguely aware of the two women standing nearby until one of them murmured, That’s pathetic.

Pathetic?

Ego jabbed him. Was she serious? For a second, he considered identifying himself as one of those three lonesome cowboys. The woman obviously didn’t know what--who--she was talking about. In his whole life, no one had ever considered him pathetic. If anything was pathetic it was that vehicle they were driving--looked like a throwback to the sixties with that ridiculous psychedelic paint job.

Another woman’s voice, this one highly amused. Save your sympathy, Sabrina. This is Nevada, where just about everything is legal. That’s probably a come-on for some cathouse. No doubt, they’re advertising for new girls.

Intrigued, he glanced over his shoulder at the two women. The younger one, her mouth parted in astonishment, looked all of twenty-five. Color climbed her neck and flushed her cheeks. She brushed back shoulder-length hair, a silky waterfall of cognac. Dressed in a neat, restrained suit and heels, she looked straight from the city. How she could appear both innocent and sophisticated intrigued him. She delighted his eyes as he drank in her tall, supple form, reminded of a springtime willow.

He wondered from what distant planet she’d dropped in. Only someone who’d never visited the Silver State before batted an eyelash at the mention of its highly profitable sex industry.

The other woman, a dried up little raisin who looked as old as Methuselah’s mother, wore a grin that sparked of mischief. Hair as white as the Sierra’s first snowfall, she was duded out in fringed denim and enough turquoise-studded jewelry to finance her own brothel.

Damned if she didn’t catch him staring and wink!

He touched his dusty Stetson. Ma’am.

Like a mare nudging her filly, she herded her companion in his direction. So, she said, throwing him a flirtatious smile, What do you think? Should I apply?

The young woman gasped. Grandmother!

His mouth twitched until he couldn’t help but grin. Doesn’t mention any age requirements, he drawled, thoroughly amused by the unlikely duo. Believe one of them boys is named Zack. He’d be darned lucky to get you, Ma’am. He glanced at the granddaughter. You, too, Ma’am, but I can’t imagine you’d ever need a personal ad. Unless, of course, you’re a lonesome cowgirl.

"I have no desire to be a cow anything," she retorted, her jaw jutting forward, letting him know he’d stuck his foot into something.

None of his business.

He tipped his hat and climbed into the truck. A quick check in the rearview mirror showed them watching his tailgate as he disappeared down the highway. Sabrina. Pretty name, he mused, wondering if he’d ever meet up with her again, figuring he wouldn’t.

Just as well. A woman like that would have him and his brothers crawling over each other to snag her attention. The ranch would go to hell and they’d end up on the side of the road--camped beneath that damned sign--looking for rodeo jobs or fence posts to pound.

*****

Thoughts on the billboard and the cowboy, who looked too much like her ex-husband for comfort, Sabrina drove the remaining thirty miles to Stagecoach. Within a mile of Aggie’s place, she forgot her speculations on both and grew anxious about the twins, Katie and Karen. At seven, her daughters were full of mischief--just like their great-grandmother Aggie--and Sabrina wondered if the demon duo had wreaked havoc on their new babysitter, Joy Littlebear, Aggie’s nearest neighbor, the oldest of six Littlebear ragamuffins.

Joy’s great with her little brothers and sisters, Aggie said, as though reading Sabrina’s mind.

Sabrina wanted proof, and urged an additional two miles an hour out of Aggie’s WWII Jeep. You never did say how you came by this dinosaur, she prodded, recalling her father’s expression when Aggie backed the relic out of the barn. The paint job alone had made him pale. Pink and purple flowers on a yellow background. A peace symbol. Several Save-the-Spotted-Owl slogans. Made the BMW sedan parked alongside look drab.

It came with the house, boasted Aggie. Isn’t it a hoot?

A hoot? That was the same word the twins used to describe their great-grandmother, Agnes Willowby-Wood.

You should be ashamed of yourself, telling Dad the Beamer wouldn’t run, she scolded as she turned off the highway and navigated a dusty track the county dared to call a road. Next time he visits, he’ll probably drive from L.A., just to avoid this jalopy.

Edward? Aggie’s smug expression held no remorse. He’ll get over the humble ride to the airport as soon as he’s back at work, buried in his stocks and bonds.

The Jeep, built for rough terrain, managed the last quarter mile without a problem, but Sabrina breathed a sigh of relief when they jolted to a stop in front of the two-story monstrosity her grandmother now called home. A disgraceful excuse for a house, it loomed before them like a broken-down movie set. With peeling paint and missing shingles, the place probably pre-dated nearby Virginia City and the Comstock Lode.

She sat there a moment, staring at the structure, experiencing once again the same shocked disbelief as when she and her father had arrived two days before. She shook her head, hoping the disrepair was a mirage. No such luck.

As she climbed from the Jeep, the twins barreled through the door at full steam, pursued by their babysitter, her long black braids flying, the screen door banging behind them. All three skidded to a stop, mouths dropping open in surprise.

Sabrina cleared her throat. Hi, kids. How’d it go? She gave Joy a hopeful look and was rewarded with an embarrassed smile.

We were playing tag, Joy explained, ruffling Karen’s wild mop while surreptitiously tugging Katie’s blond ponytail. The kids are great.

Katie beamed. Can’t you stay and play longer? she pleaded.

Pul-leaze! begged Karen.

Gotta go no dudettes, but maybe we can to it again tomorrow. Joy grinned as she turned to leave.

The girls clamored after her.

Chill out, girls. It was as close to a scolding as Aggie ever came. Give your new friend a break, she chided, adding a ten-spot to Sabrina’s five. Money was tight in the Littlebear household.

Joy looked surprised, her dark eyes suddenly aglow, her grin turning mega-watt. Just give me a holler if you need me again.

Wait a sec, Joy, Sabrina called, thankful everything had gone well. I’ll drive you.

More often than not, when the kids were left with someone, they’d all be in tears--even the sitter--when she got home. Rambunctious twins were a handful for anyone.

Don’t bother. I can use the exercise.

Sabrina pulled out keys to the Jeep. Anyone who’s survived two hours with the Dynamic Duo doesn’t need more exercise. Climb in. I need to start finding my way around anyway.

*****

By the time Sabrina returned from the Littlebear house, the twins had devoured soup and sandwiches and were off to play in the barn.

Now what can I get for you, Sabrina? Aggie asked, settling into a chair with a sigh.

Sabrina smiled at her. No matter how hard her grandmother worked to convince folks otherwise, she wasn’t a young girl anymore. Nothing for me, Aggie. I’ll have some yogurt later.

Aggie made a weak protest, but Sabrina splashed hot water into the dish pan, squirted in soap and then dunked the kids’ dirty bowls and silverware into the suds. The familiar ritual in such an unfamiliar setting soothed her. She thought about the cowgirl remark tossed at her by that stranger beneath the ridiculous billboard. Aggie had said that a lot of cowboys were so busy ranching they didn’t have time to date, had speculated it must be a lonely life. Sabrina knew what loneliness felt like.

You think Dad is home by now? she asked, surprised by the melancholy sound of her voice. Something more than miles separated this place from her home in Long Beach. She’d always heard Southern California was a state of mind, and now after two days in Nevada, the truth of that statement was sinking in.

Probably. Aggie didn’t glance up from her newspaper. Unless he got caught in that gol-danged freeway traffic.

Sabrina shook her head in dismay at Aggie’s affected accent. Her grandmother had only been in Nevada for a couple of months, yet she had already packed away her cultured upbringing and University of California education, and now insisted on talking like a grizzled back hills prospector.

I don’t know why he came up here, anyway, Aggie added.

Oh, Grandmother, you do so. He was worried about you. Finished with the dishes, Sabrina hung the dishtowel on a hook beneath the sink. She crossed to the kitchen table and gave the older woman a hug. You’re the only mother he’s got.

Yeah, right, blame him all on me. As though his father had nothing to do with it. Aggie rolled her eyes. Do you suppose he’s too old to put up for adoption?

Sabrina smothered a smile, amusement bubbling up inside her, as foreign as the surrounding high desert landscape. She’d stopped crying over Jason Sayers, her ex-husband, the star of television’s hottest new western series, father of her twin girls--and philanderer extraordinaire. But she hadn’t learned how to laugh again.

Never one to laugh easily, except around her grandmother, she eyed the sweet old lady with love. Aggie was one-of-a-kind. It was hard to associate her and her zest for life with Edward, her staid and dignified son.

I was worried about you, too, Sabrina said, well aware that her father was dull as last year’s horoscope--and something of a snob. If you think you’re going to get rid of me as easily as Dad, you’re mistaken.

No one wants to, Miss Priss. You’re still salvageable, and that hunk this afternoon looked as though he’d be willing to take on the job. What was it he’d said? She stood up, rolled back on her heels, and hooked her thumbs in the pockets of her denim skirt. Howdy... She dropped her voice a couple of octaves. Howdy, Ma’am. My name’s The Durango Kid and I’m a bronc buster from way back. I cut my teeth on cowpies and wild mustangs. You want the ride of your life, there’s no need to advertise.

Grandmother!

Giggles erupted from the doorway, erasing the titillating thoughts of such a ride from her mind. The twins. They thought their great-grandmother a scream of entertainment, especially now that she’d turned into a cowgirl and bought them outfits to match her own. Sabrina wasn’t that impressed, though. Not with her grandmother’s new vocabulary, her rented house, or the sand and sagebrush surrounding it.

She admitted to herself though, that Aggie, who was pushing seventy, seemed well and looked happier than she had in a long time.

So if everything was running smooth, why was Sabrina Sayers sticking around?

The twins’ laughter was her answer. They’d laughed more in two days here than the whole last year in Long Beach.

Okay, kids, time for bed. Go jump into your PJs...

Their protests drowned her out, but in thirty minutes they’d brushed their teeth, had finagled two bedtime stories, collected goodnight hugs, and were sound asleep.

The house blessedly quiet, Sabrina padded downstairs and picked up the Reno Review. Might as well acquaint herself with the place. She’d stay here all summer if it made the twins happy.

She skimmed through the editorial page, then skipped to the next, scanning letters to the editor. There were scathing commentaries--pro and con--about the WANTED: SINGLE LADIES billboard. Most thought it should be torn down. Others were more vicious. Some just wanted to apply, and stated their measurements. Sabrina shook her head in amazement. Whoever heard of a fifty-two inch bust coupled with a twenty-six inch waist?

Well, she had no intention of applying, but she did have a few thoughts on the matter of the sign. She scrounged up a blank piece of paper and a pen, and began to write.

*****

Four days had passed since Rusty first spotted his brother’s outlandish billboard. Four crazy days. Who would have thought so many people traveled that stretch of highway?

Rusty stomped into the living room at the 3-D, his brother Clay behind him. He slapped Zack’s booted feet off the arm of the sofa and threw the Reno newspaper in his startled face. About time you showed up! Read that!

Eyes bleary, dark hair tousled as a kid’s, Zack blinked at him without grasping the import. The paper had fallen open to the comics, which were about as funny as the daily ritual of getting up at four-thirty to get the chores done.

Life was too damned short.

And eighteen-year-old Zack lived it like there were only two hours left and he still had a hundred things he intended to get done. Full tilt. That wild, impulsive streak had gotten him into more jams than Rusty wanted to remember. No wonder the kid was dead on his feet. He hadn’t been home in three days. How had he found the time to get that ridiculous billboard designed, let alone get it planted on that dad-blamed hillside?

Clay picked up the paper,