Dust Storm

A single dad rancher and a rich city girl bump heads--and more--in this first cowboy romance in the Griffith Brothers series. For Christian Griffith, his number one rule is: You ride in my truck, you let me open the door. Another problem in his busy life was the last thing he needed. Unfortunately, argumentative Cassandra Parker showing up on his family’s ranch and sticking her nose in their business isn’t even his biggest problem--neither is the fact that with nowhere else to live, she’s in his house. The biggest problem? The engagement ring on her finger. Cassandra has a life motto: If you’re going to kill someone, make it look like an accident, cry at the funeral, admit to nothing, and deny everything. Exiled from New York and stranded on a cattle ranch, she didn’t exactly choose to be Christian’s problem. Living with the single dad and his daughters was a downgrade from her high-rise office and city comforts, but she agreed for one simple reason: desperation to save her job and salvage what’s left of her career. And this hot cowboy won’t lasso her into staying a second longer than necessary.

Autorentext

Maggie Gates writes raw, relatable romance novels packed full of heat and humor. Maggie calls North Carolina home. In her spare time, she enjoys daydreaming about her characters, jamming to country music, and eating all the barbecue and tacos she can find! Her e-reader is always within reach due to a love of small-town romances that borders on obsession.

Klappentext

A single dad rancher and a rich city girl bump heads—and more—in this first cowboy romance in the Griffith Brothers series.

For Christian Griffith, his number one rule is: You ride in my truck, you let me open the door. Another problem in his busy life was the last thing he needed. Unfortunately, argumentative Cassandra Parker showing up on his family’s ranch and sticking her nose in their business isn’t even his biggest problem—neither is the fact that with nowhere else to live, she’s in his house. The biggest problem? The engagement ring on her finger.

Cassandra has a life motto: If you’re going to kill someone, make it look like an accident, cry at the funeral, admit to nothing, and deny everything. Exiled from New York and stranded on a cattle ranch, she didn’t exactly choose to be Christian’s problem. Living with the single dad and his daughters was a downgrade from her high-rise office and city comforts, but she agreed for one simple reason: desperation to save her job and salvage what’s left of her career. And this hot cowboy won’t lasso her into staying a second longer than necessary.

Leseprobe
Chapter 1

Christian

Come on, squirrels-get a move on!" I hollered up the stairs.

"Dad!" one squirrel said with a giggle. "We're girls, not squirrels!"

The handheld radio sitting by the coffee pot crackled as my youngest brother, CJ, gave a report on the herd movement.

The nine thousand head of cattle that sprawled across the Griffith Brothers Ranch kept us on our toes, but what kept me busiest were the two tornadoes who were supposed to be getting ready for school.

When I didn't hear them moving upstairs, I set the spatula down and craned around the corner. "Bree! Gracie! Finish getting dressed, brush your hair, and brush your teeth!"

"I want braids!" Bree called as she thundered down the stairs with the stomp force of a linebacker.

"Me too!" Gracie echoed from their bathroom.

"No! I called braids. Do something else," Bree snapped.

"Hey! No fighting this early in the morning," I bellowed loud enough for them to hear me around the corner.

"But I called braids first!" Bree huffed as she stormed into the kitchen and grabbed a pancake off the fresh pile I had made.

I rinsed my hands off and did a quick towel dry. "You can both have braids."

"But she's copying me."

At thirteen, all Bree wanted was for eleven-year-old Gracie to stop following her around like a wide-eyed puppy.

It made me chuckle at the years Gretchen and I thought having two toddlers was bad. Now, I had two middle schoolers all on my own.

"Then I'll give you different braids," I said as I turned back to the stove and finished cooking the batch of pancakes. "Get the box."

Bree heaved the giant tackle box I used to organize all their hair accessories on top of the kitchen table and plopped down in a chair. I slid a plate of bacon and eggs in front of her to go with the pilfered pancake she'd stolen from the counter. She chowed down while I pawed through the little compartments full of elastics, hair clips, combs, brushes, and a million other things the girls insisted on.

"What kind of braids today?" I asked in a yawn as I ran a brush through her dirty-blonde hair, catching the few tangles she had missed.

"Fishtails," she said around a mouthful of scrambled eggs.

"Tight or loose?"

"Loose. The puffy kind. With clips."

Life wasn't easy. There was running the ranch. There was fatherhood. There was finding time for myself, which usually fell by the wayside.

Doing it on my own sucked, but I never wanted my girls to feel like they were a burden. I wasn't great at everything. The way I'd stammered through the period talk with Bree a few months ago was proof of that.

But I tried.

Dammit, I tried hard.

Bree sat stock-still as I sectioned her hair and started weaving flat strands, one on top of the other.

Braids were easy. It was that fucking curling iron that was the death of me.

The burns on my fingers were proof of that.

By the time she finished her plate, I was tugging the neat fishtail braids so they were loose and puffy.

Apparently, tight braids weren't cool anymore.

"My turn!" Gracie said as she elbowed her way to the tackle box. "I want-"

"Not fishtail braids," Bree clipped.

I stifled an eye roll.

All I wanted was one morning where they weren't at each other's throats about who got what. Was that too much to ask?

I should have already been at work.

"I want a halo braid."

That seemed to appease Bree.

Gracie made a taco out of her pancake, filling it with eggs and a crumble of bacon before meeting me on the couch. She lay on her side and rested her head on my leg while I braided her hair into a crown.

As I was pinning the tail under the braid with a bobby pin, Bree called out, "Grandma's here!"

Gracie shot off the couch like a rocket.

"Lunches are in the fridge," I said as I cleared the couch of hair paraphernalia.

They shouldered their backpacks and stomped their shoes on. The fridge door slammed as they grabbed their respective lunchboxes.

No matter how much they begged to buy lunch at school, a homemade lunch meant I cared. It meant I put in the time and effort. Right?

Maybe I should just let them get lunch at school.

I ran a hand down the side of my beard as I watched them load up like pack mules.

My mom sat in her idling minivan as the girls bolted into the back and buckled up.

"Thanks," I said to Mom as I craned my head through the passenger window.

I tried to be all things for all people. Especially my people. And my daughters were my people.

After Gretchen passed, I grieved. I took a minimal amount of time to be selfish. And then I picked myself up and had to be dad and mom for my girls.

Unfortunately, there weren't enough hours in the day. So, I finally broke down and accepted help for things like school drop-off and pickup.

"Any time," she said over a sip of coffee from her thermos. "Don't forget about that consultant coming in today."

I scoffed over the symphony of buckling seatbelts. "Pretty sure I said that was a you problem. I'm not the one who hired her."

Mom snickered. "I'm not either. Be…