The Lone Rancher - By Carol Finch Page 0,6

to oversee the stacking of lumber and the corralling of her herd of purebred Herefords into the pens beside the oversize barn.

Although Adrianna had sold the opulent mansion in Boston, she had retained the country estate where she had grown up raising prize cattle and horses. The place held sentimental memories of the freedom and happiness she had enjoyed during the first eighteen years of her life.

Before she had been instructed to behave like the proper, dignified lady her father insisted she become—and never could.

“Never again am I going to try to live up to anyone’s expectations,” Adrianna vowed fiercely. “This is my independence day. I’m going to make something of myself!”

Quin trotted Cactus through the pasture, taking the shortcut to the neighboring ranch. He leaned out to open the adjoining gate that led into McKnight’s pasture and noted the convoy of empty wagons moving in the direction of town. Too bad the McKnights hadn’t reversed direction before unloading their belongings. It would have saved them time and money.

He had seen this scenario several times before. Investors from England and Ireland had purchased Texas ranches and unknowingly hired incompetent managers. In the past eighteen months Quin had purchased two English-owned properties at rock-bottom prices and added pastures, bunkhouses, line shacks, barns and ranch homes to the sprawling 4C Ranch.

Unfortunately, he couldn’t gloat over his hard-earned success to his siblings because he only knew where Bowie was—and they weren’t speaking. He suspected Chance and Leanna had kept in contact with Bowie. But Quin had no clue where the two youngest siblings had begun the new lives they were so hell-bent on leading. Well, he hoped they were happy.

At his expense, of course. They didn’t care if he worked himself into an early grave to make the ranch the largest and most influential spread in the whole damn state.

Just as Earl and Ruby Cahill had dreamed of doing.

Ranching wasn’t in their blood, his siblings had said. Quin wasn’t sure Cahill blood ran through their veins. How could they be so different and still be related? That question continued to confuse him. And damn it, what was wrong with the life they were born to? Wasn’t it good enough for the lot of them?

He thrust aside his exasperated thoughts, then urged the muscular bay into a gallop. He smiled in anticipation as he surveyed the home, barn, sheds and bunkhouse that sat on a hill surrounded by a copse of shade trees. One day this property would belong to him, along with the spring-fed fork of Triple Creek.

It was only a matter of time before A. K. McKnight packed up and went home where he should’ve stayed in the first place, Quin assured himself confidently. Yankees had no place in Texas. They weren’t accustomed to the rigorous demands of managing thousands of acres, controlling predators and battling rustlers. What in hell were these people thinking?

Quin rolled his eyes when he saw several cowboys draped over the corral fence, surveying the newly arrived livestock. Those Yankees thought the Hereford breed could withstand harsh weather conditions and compete for grass in pastures with longhorns?

“Those white-faced cows had better be hardy,” he said, and smirked. “Otherwise, they’ll be dropping like flies and wolf packs will make a feast of them.” Sure, he had crossbred livestock, hoping for the best characteristics possible, but he had seen too many English breeds fail miserably in this climate. He hoped the McKnights had plenty of money to cover their losses.

Anxious to meet his short-term neighbors and present his offer, Quin bounded up the steps two at a time, then rapped loudly on the door. After knocking a second time, the door finally opened. He sized up the lanky, hazel-eyed man in a stylish suit. He looked to be in his late forties, judging by the strands of gray mingling with brown hair. The well-dressed gent looked down his hawkish nose, as if Quin didn’t measure up. To what Eastern standard Quin didn’t know—or care.

“A. K. McKnight?” Quin presumed as he grabbed the man’s hand and gave it a firm shake.

The man wriggled his hand loose and stepped aside. Then he said, “And you are…?”

“Quin Cahill, your neighbor to the north and to the east,” he replied as he entered the hallway that was cluttered with the fanciest furniture he’d ever laid eyes on. Even his mother’s fine taste in furnishings didn’t compare to this stuff, he mused.

“Come sit down, Mr. Cahill…if you can find an empty space in the parlor.