Abel’s Hollow, Dallas, Texas
Everyone in town still called it the Littlefoot Ranch, and that annoyed Martha to no end. The Rowlands were here now, and it had been renamed Rowland Ranch, so why couldn’t anyone respect that? It was one of those small things that could really grate on a person but didn’t really have an obvious solution.
That was what Martha liked to do. She came across problems and found solutions, and that was that. She wasn’t a whiner.
Unfortunately, all there was to do in this awful little town was whine about various problems, in between all the endless, soul-crushing chores.
Still, in the grand scheme of things, the name of their ranch wasn’t a big deal, and there was really no point wasting time worrying about it. It was still their ranch, after all, regardless of what the locals called it. Besides, the locals weren’t going to stop calling Martha’s home ‘the Littlefoot place’, and that was that, so she might as well grit her teeth and get on with it.
Martha had never met the previous residents of their fine, big ranch house, although they seemed to have been well-liked in the community. They were a family, by the sounds of it, and their leaving had been something of a shock. Apparently, people didn’t often leave town. Somebody leaving town was even more shocking and rare than somebody coming there to stay. On purpose.
Abel’s Hollow was completely different to anything Martha could have imagined. She certainly wasn’t used to the place, not by a long shot. It wasn’t a large town, and everybody knew everybody else. The Rowlands had been here for six months, but as far as the locals were concerned, it might as well have been no more than six minutes.
Or perhaps nobody cared. That was more likely, since the locals hadn’t exactly been welcoming. She had a lot of time to mull over these possibilities on her long, tedious trip to and from the well every morning, the heavy wooden water bucket bouncing painfully against her legs.
She had very nearly made it home when the half-rotted wooden handle connected to the elderly water bucket finally broke away, and the full bucket of water went crashing down onto the courtyard cobbles. She staggered back, released from the hefty weight of the water bucket, and landed heavily on her backside. Water splashed everywhere, including all over Martha’s feet and against her legs, soaking her skirts.
“Oh, darn it!” she cried, kicking impotently at the broken bucket.
The nearby window sash flew open, and Mrs. Rowland’s head appeared.
“I hope that was not a curse I heard from your lips, Martha Marilla Rowland!”
In an instant, Martha could hear Ralph’s voice echoing in her head, sheepish and arch all at once.
No, Mama, I never would.
She swallowed down the tide of misery before it could overwhelm her. Ralph wasn’t here, and she’d had a full year to come to grips with that.
“No, Ma, I didn’t. The water bucket broke.”
Mrs. Rowland—Rebecca—was a faded woman of forty. She’d once had honey-blonde hair, thick and curly, but these days it had faded to a pale blonde, frizzy mess. There were lines on her face and dark rings around her eyes that hadn’t been there a year or two ago, and she’d taken to wearing a perpetually anxious expression. At that moment, her hair was twisted into a knot behind her head, with blowsy tendrils already escaping. She nibbled her lip, eyeing the broken bucket with resignation.
“Well, that’s a shame. Have we a spare?”
“I’ll find out. If not, I can get a new bucket in town today.”
“I’m sure we have a spare.”
“I don’t want to go back to the well right now. I’m already exhausted.”
“Yes, but then we won’t have water for breakfast. You’ll have to go back to the well.”
The realization that she’d have to trudge all the way back to the old well struck Martha, and her knees buckled with tiredness. She imagined the long trek around the back of the house, over the field, through a little copse of trees to the edge of the forest, into the clearing where the ancient old well sat. Then she’d have to drop the bucket in and winch it all the way back up again, full to the brim with water. Admittedly, the water was cold and clean and tasted better than anything she’d drank back in New York, but the thought still made her feel exhausted.
It wasn’t even breakfast yet.
She climbed to her feet, imagining the long, tedious day stretching out before her. Nothing but back-breaking chores, endless tasks that were never quite completed, and none of her old friends to lighten the monotony of the day.
“Mama, are we going to get some help around here or not?” Martha asked, propping one hand on her hip. “You said we’d hire a maid.”
Rebecca bit her lip again. Her lower lip was red-raw and swollen from the nervous habit, and her fingernails had been chewed down to the quick. Sometimes, Martha just wanted to take her mother’s hands in hers and hold them gently, safe from her gnawing teeth.
“None of the other locals have hired help,” Rebecca said, glancing nervously around as if the neighbors might be listening in at that very moment, judging them for even considering hiring help around the ranch house. That was ridiculous. They couldn’t even see any of their neighbors from here. It was a far cry from the cramped streets of New York, that was for sure, and Martha wasn’t sure that she liked it.
“They have ranch hands, I’m sure.” Martha tried again.
“Yes, but not women to help with household chores. I think it’s just not done, honey. We’ll have to do it ourselves.”
As always, Martha had to bite down on a flare of temper. Rebecca didn’t have a bad bone in her body, but her father—Mr. Thomas Rowland—had an infamous temper, and Martha had sadly inherited that.
“I bet the other houses have water pumps in their courtyards,” Martha said as patiently as she could. “It’s taking me far too long to get water, and I’m slopping half of it over the sides as it is.”
Rebecca’s expression turned mutinous, and Martha knew she’d pushed too far.
“Well, when you’re married to Rupert Mahoney, and our restaurant is all set up, you can have as much hired help as you want,” she said sharply and closed the window with a bang.
Martha flinched. That was a low blow. Rebecca knew that she hated all mentions of Rupert Mahoney and the stupid, pointless engagement.
But there was no point moping over it now. Martha picked up the broken bucket, stepped over a pool of spilled water, and made her way toward the barn. Maybe there’d be a spare bucket in there. She might as well keep herself busy.
They were talking about her, Martha knew it. She sensed it as soon as she stepped into the kitchen, red-faced and sweaty, with a full, clean bucket of water to hand. Thomas and Rebecca had both been sitting at the kitchen table, leaning almost nose to nose, whispering urgently. The whispering ceased as soon as Martha stepped inside, and Rebecca loudly and ostentatiously shushed her husband.
“Morning, Marty-girl,” Thomas said jovially. “I hear we had an accident with the water bucket this morning. Sorry about that, sweet pea.”
“Not your fault, Pa.”
“You work hard, and it’s not fair for you to have to mooch along with bad tools,” Thomas said firmly. “I’ll go into town right after breakfast and buy a new one. Anything else we need?”
As always, Rebecca looked expectantly at her daughter, waiting for her to produce the list of food, supplies, and small comforts they would need to buy in town.
Martha, who had just lifted a spoon of porridge to her lips, suppressed a sigh.
“Hold on, Pa. I’ll go get the list.”
Leaving her steaming bowl of porridge on the kitchen table, Martha moved from the kitchen to their cute little parlor.
It was much smaller than the parlor that they’d had at home, and the parlor door opened right off from the kitchen. In fact, all the rooms had opened up out of the kitchen, except, of course, the bedrooms, which were upstairs. The kitchen was the largest room in the house, and clearly the hub of the home, the beating heart that kept everything moving.
Back in New York, Martha hadn’t even spent a lot of time in the kitchen. That space more or less belonged to the cook and the two maids that kept their home clean. But Cookie, Doris, and Missy were back in New York, at new jobs or, in Missy’s case, getting married. Martha missed them more than she’d thought she would, and not just for obvious reasons.
There was a writing desk in the corner of the parlor, tucked in beside an oversized mirror, too large for the small space. The piece of paper with the list of supplies lay on the top, and Martha snatched it up. She ran an eye down the list, checking to see that she hadn’t missed anything.
Then she heard whispered voices in the kitchen.
Thomas and Rebecca clearly still hadn’t grasped that in their new home, there was considerably less privacy than in their old home. Meaning that if they talked in the kitchen, even in low voices, Martha would be able to hear them in the parlor.
“You said you’d talk to her, Thomas.”
“And I will, when the time’s right. Don’t rush me, Becky.”
Rebecca gave a sigh. “It’s not like we have much time left. The wedding’s coming up soon, and she’s still sulking about it like a child. I can’t even mention Robert Mahoney around her without risking a tantrum.”
“His name’s Rupert, honey.”
“Oh, what does it matter?”
Thomas chuckled. “Sweetheart, the Mahoney name is everything we need to get our restaurant established in this town. This isn’t New York anymore. To fit in with the locals, we need influence. Sure, Abel’s Hollow looks set to grow fast in the next few years, but for now, we’d better keep on the right side of the Mahoneys. They’ve got the contacts, and they’ve got the reputation. If they lead, the rest of the town will follow. We need them, plain and simple. I didn’t exactly plan to marry Martha off to some hick family once we got here, but he seems a decent enough man. She’ll be fine.”
“I sure hope so. I wish she’d stop digging in her heels, though. It’s not like she had gentlemen flocking after her back home. She’s too clever for her own good and not pretty enough to be half so outspoken as she is. If we’d stayed there, she would have been well set for spinsterhood.”
Martha flinched at her mother’s harsh words. She waited to hear if her father would speak up for her, but there was only silence. Back home, Rebecca had never been so hurtful with her words. It was as if coming out here had made her mean.
Mean, but truthful, Martha thought, casting a reluctant glance at her reflection in the mirror.
She wasn’t really pretty, but it only bothered her sometimes. Martha was of average height and shape, slim without being willowy, with uninteresting light brown hair and a pale oval face. Her skin was too pale for the unforgiving Texas sun, and she’d learned that very quickly. The hot red smears of burned skin across her face were fading now, and she’d have to be more careful in the future. An array of freckles had leaped out across her nose and cheeks. Privately, Martha thought they looked cute, but Rebecca thought differently. She had all sorts of creams and teas and whatnot for Martha to sample in the hopes that it would make her freckles fade.
Martha wasn’t using the creams and poured out the teas when her mother wasn’t looking.
She had pretty eyes, though, if a person liked green. Some people thought green was unlucky, especially the proper grass-green shade of Martha’s eyes. Her eyes were large and fringed with pale eyelashes, without a hint of blue or gray or brown.
Aside from that, Martha resigned herself to the fact that she wasn’t a beauty. It didn’t matter, though. Or so she’d thought until Rebecca had started complaining about her.
Her fiancé didn’t seem to think that she was pretty either, but Martha couldn’t have cared less about that. Until now, of course, when she imagined married life with a man who wasn’t interested in her or attracted to her in the slightest and had only married her for her daddy’s money.
She shivered, swallowing hard.
No point worrying about that now, though. Martha tore her eyes away from her disappointing reflection and moved back into the kitchen.
Thomas and Rebecca smiled guiltily at her, and for a moment, Martha considered telling them that she’d heard everything they’d said.
She didn’t, though. No point, really. Who was going to be on her side, after all? Her parents always sided with each other—which was as it should be, with a married couple—but now that Ralph, her only advocate and only brother, was gone, who’d be on Martha’s side?
Stop it, stop it, Martha told herself angrily. She placed the list on the table in front of Thomas.
“Found it,” she said bluntly.
Hollow’s End had started off as a single, lopsided shack built in the middle of unplowed fields and scrubland. It was only comprised of one room—cooking, washing, and most other activities besides sleeping had to be done outside—and was bitter cold in the winter and unbearably hot in the summer.
That was back when Grandpop Mahoney first came into Abel’s Hollow and decided that he’d stay here. The shack he built for his family was really too small for even just one person, let alone the seven who settled there, with grown boys among them.
Over time, a combination of family tragedy and business success meant that the shack grew, and the family shrunk. Now, the little shack was a large, rambling ranch house, able to house at least twice the number of people who lived there with ease.
It was just the four of them here now, and it had always annoyed Spencer that they still called the ranch Hollow’s Edge. What was wrong with Mahoney Ranch?
“Are you woolgathering over there, Spence?”
He flinched, glancing up from his breakfast plate.
“What? No, Ma. Just thinking. Got lots to do later.”
That was something of a lie. The Mahoneys had plenty of ranch hands to take care of their land and endless heads of cattle. Spencer could probably laze around in the house all day, and nothing would go wrong.
They even had a hired girl, Iris, who came in to cook, clean, and do laundry. They were the only family in town who had help in the house with the ‘women’s work’.
The reason for that trailed all the way back to the first preacher in Abel’s Hollow, who came down along with Grandpop Mahoney. The preacher was a real fire-and-brimstone fellow who delivered stinging sermons from the pulpit before they even had a church built. One of his favorite topics was something about how women ought to be working hard in the home to atone for being extra sinful, on account of Eve being the start of sin. Birthing lots of babies and putting good food on the table, and generally caring for their man. Obviously, it was understood that no amount of cooking and scrubbing floors would undo Eve’s monumental sin, but it was also understood that the women ought to do it anyway.
That was almost funny to Spencer. Hadn’t Adam eaten the damn fruit too?
Anyway, that had made a great impression on the people of Abel’s Hollow, and to this day, it was frowned upon for women to hire help for household chores, no matter how old, young, or infirm they might be. Women would be ashamed to have help in the house, and most men simply wouldn’t allow it in their homes.
It was fine for men to hire help on their ranches and land, though. That was different.
Of course, old Fire-and-Brimstone was long dead, and the preacher they had now was a different sort of man. Even if he’d held those sorts of beliefs, he’d have been too afraid to voice them in the presence of Dorothy “Dottie” Mahoney. Spencer privately thought that if the old preacher had met Dottie, there’d have been a showdown that was talked about in Abel’s Hollow forever.
She’d have won, of course. Eve might have given life to humanity, but Dottie was fully prepared to take it away again.
Dottie Mahoney leaned forward over the table, eyeing Spencer closely.
“Something’s up with you, boy.”
She was well into her late forties, having married late. The house had just been a cabin when she moved in, with a single tiny bedroom for sleeping in and a decently sized second room for living in, and she’d worked her fingers to the bone to make the ranch into what it was today, along with her husband.
If anyone had anything to say about Dottie Mahoney, they’d better not say it in the presence of her husband. Fred was a quiet man, the sort that rarely spoke a word, but he’d have plenty to say if anyone spoke against his beloved wife.
It would be nice to have a relationship like that, Spencer had thought more than once.
“I guess I’m just worried about Rupert,” Spencer admitted. “I can’t help wondering what—”
He stopped talking abruptly when the door opened. Rupert appeared, cheeks reddened from the early morning chill.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said, breathless. “Morning, Ma, morning, Pa. Morning, Spence.”
Rupert and Spencer had been taken for twins more than once. Spencer was the oldest at twenty-five, and Rupert was twenty-three, but they looked roughly the same age. They had the same handsome, square faces that set hearts a-flutter in town, thick blond hair, clear blue eyes, and golden-brown skin that tanned nicely in the Texas heat.
There were differences, though, here and there. Rupert was generally thought to be the more handsome of the two, if one had to pick. He was an inch or two taller, his hair was more golden than just yellow, and there were pretty tinges of gold in his eyes.
Maybe that was why they’d picked Rupert to marry the Rowland girl.
Rupert sat down with a sigh and spooned himself out a bowl of porridge. Dottie watched him with narrowed eyes. She was a large woman, tall and strong, with muscular arms and legs. Her middle had mostly gone to fat, but she’d still take any man in town in a fight with ease.
She had the same clear blue eyes as her sons, but they’d inherited their golden-brown skin and blond hair from their pa.
Not that Pa had much hair left these days, of course.
As always, Fred Mahoney was reading a book at the table, oblivious to whatever was going on around him.
“You seem a little off this morning, Rupert,” Dottie stated. Not a question. Just a statement.
Rupert shrugged, not looking her in the eye.
“I’m fine, Ma. Don’t worry.”
“What are your plans after breakfast?” Dottie inquired. “Rupert?”
“Chores, I think. Spence, I wanted to take a look at the new paddock fence. It doesn’t look secure to me. If we’re going to keep the new stallion in there, we’d better check it over.”
Dottie cleared her throat for attention. “Well, I was thinking, why not go down to the Littlefoot Ranch?”
Rupert stilled. “What for?”
“To pay a call on your fiancée, of course. Miss Martha Rowland barely sees hide nor hair of you these days.”
Scrape, scrape, scrape went the spoon in the bowl, but no porridge went into Rupert’s mouth.
“I’m busy, Ma. Sorry. Spence, will you help me with the fence later?”
That was a not-so-subtle hint that the conversation was over. Spencer shrugged, glancing over at Dottie.
She leaned back in her seat with a sigh, a slight nod of her head indicating that Spencer and Rupert could go check out the paddock if they wanted. Something was bothering Rupert, and nobody had to delve in deep to find out what it was. Not that it mattered. He clearly wasn’t going to share with anyone.
Not yet, at least.
Spencer began to eat his breakfast, shooting sidelong glances at his brother as he did so. Rupert was moving his spoon around in the bowl a lot but not actually eating anything.
The hired girl, a quiet, clever, bespectacled young woman named Iris, shuffled quietly around the table, pouring out coffee.
“I’ll get on with the laundry, Miss Mahoney,” Iris said quietly, and Dottie flashed her a smile.
“Be sure to eat your breakfast first. You saved yourself some, right?”
“I sure did.”
“Good girl. Go on, then.”
Spencer glanced back at Rupert and found that he’d gone entirely still and stared down at his porridge without even seeing it.
“Are you sure you’re alright?” Spencer whispered.
“I’m fine,” Rupert replied at once, but he didn’t look him in the eyes.
“I don’t think the marriage is a good idea.”
There. He’d said it. Spencer let out a huff of relief, glad that the words had finally been said. The marriage between the Mahoneys and the Rowlands had been Dottie’s plan, and it didn’t do to contradict her in public.
Rupert barely reacted. He was pacing around the new, empty paddock, testing the posts for durability.
“It’s all settled, Spence. No point whining about it now.”
“You don’t even know the girl.”
Rupert shrugged. “No, I don’t. But that’s not really important.”
“Not important? You’re going to marry her.”
Spencer watched his brother pace back and forth, frustration building.
“It doesn’t matter,” Rupert repeated.
“Don’t you want to be in love?”
Something in Rupert’s face twisted, quickly gone. “What, like you and Bessie Thompson?”
Spencer flinched. “That’s mean, Rupert.”
His brother paused, back turned toward him. His shoulders sagged.
“You’re right, Spence. I’m sorry. But my point still stands. I saw how that business with Bessie tore you up. Maybe marrying someone like this is a better choice. After all, Ma and Pa hadn’t so much as met before they got married. It was all letters, until she traveled up here.”
Spencer sighed, raking a hand through his hair. The sky above was a vivid azure blue, the sun beating down on them mercilessly. His hair was already wet with sweat, a little circle of prickling heat all around his head where the band of his wide-brimmed hat sat against his skin.
“Shouldn’t you at least try to get to know her more? Have you even seen her, aside from church?”
The Rowlands were newcomers. They’d barely been in town half a year and bought up that big old Littlefoot Ranch. They tried to rename it after themselves, which amused the locals to no end. They’d had at least three restaurants in New York, and why they’d chosen to sell them up and come out here was anybody’s guess.
Maybe if they’d been more forthcoming about that, the locals of Abel’s Hollow might have been more welcoming. As it was, the Rowlands stayed in their fine new house up on the ridge, overlooking the town. Alone.
They had one child, a girl, and a small fortune to waste.
No, a large fortune. Spencer had no idea how the idea of marriage came up. Maybe Mr. Rowland suggested it, or maybe it was Dottie. Either way, Rupert and Miss Martha Rowland were engaged, and everybody knew it. The wedding was coming up soon, and nobody was looking forward to it.
Least of all Rupert.
“Is she pretty?” Spencer tried again. He’d caught glimpses of Miss Martha in church, but it was hard to see what she really looked like underneath a cloak and a wide-brimmed bonnet that covered up most of her face. Maybe they were fashionable in New York, but she must have been sweltering under all that lace and fabric.
Rupert shrugged. “She ain’t ugly.”
“That’s not a yes.”
“She’s not my type, Spence. I don’t know what you want me to say. She doesn’t seem impressed by me either, so the feeling is mutual. There. Happy now?”
Spencer bit his lip. “Of course, I’m not happy, you fool. Can’t you tell Ma and Pa that you don’t want to go through with it? I’m not dumb, you know. This marriage business is making you unhappy.”
Rupert had his back carefully turned toward his brother. He aimed a gentle kick at one of the posts. The wood wobbled but stayed well entrenched. So far, the paddock looked good and solid, but Rupert was frowning at it as though it were made of chicken wire and spit.
“Do you know how much the new stallion cost?” Rupert said suddenly, turning back to face Spencer.
“Yeah, I know. Pricey, but…”
“No buts. Just pricey. We took a bad loss when a bunch of the horses got hoof-rot last year, remember? And the year before that, the cattle rustlers got almost a fifth of the herd? We never did get most of them back.”
“Well, yes, but I don’t see…”
“You don’t see what, Spencer?” Rupert snapped, and Spencer retreated from the anger in his brother’s voice. “We’re losing money hand over fist. In the early days, when we didn’t have much, we could just hunker down and tighten our belts, but we can’t do that now. We got wages to pay, land that can’t be worked without a dozen ranch hands, and hefty taxes that’ll cripple us if we let them. We got hundreds upon hundreds of cattle to take care of, and this part of the world is changing so fast we don’t even know if there’ll be a place for ranches like this in five, ten years’ time. We can’t afford to take losses anymore. We need an infusion of money, and we need it fast.”
Spencer swallowed hard, feeling stupid and clumsy. “I…I didn’t know it was that bad.”
I should have known, he thought, I’m the oldest. Why didn’t I know?
Some of Rupert’s anger had faded away, leaving him drained. He shrugged his shoulders weakly.
“You don’t have a head for numbers, Spence. I do. That’s why Ma got me to take a look at our finances. It was worse than I thought. And that’s where the Rowlands come in.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Don’t be an idiot. They need Mahoney influence to get their dumb restaurant up and running, and we need their money. It’s a merger, just like in business, only instead of signatures on a contract, it’s a trip down the aisle. That’s all.”
“Marriage ain’t a merger, Rupert.”
Rupert shook his head pityingly. “And what do you think it is, then? The Rowlands might have more money than they know what to do with, but this ain’t New York. They won’t thrive here without us, and we can’t make it much longer without them. That’s all there is to it.”
Spencer was quiet for a long moment, struggling for something to say. He’d known, in a disinterested sort of way, that they weren’t doing as well as they’d done five years ago. But everything had seemed fine. The wages were paid, food was on the table, and they weren’t in debt.
Or were they? Maybe Ma, Pa, and Rupert had gone off to the bank to secure a loan against their house, leaving poor, stupid Spencer at home, oblivious.
The idea of the sheriff coming to the house and pasting a notice on the front door sent a shiver down Spencer’s spine.
Grandpop would be spinning in his grave, he thought.
“I’m sorry, Rupert. Why…why didn’t you tell me?”
Rupert bit his lip. “I guess I didn’t want you to worry. There didn’t seem much point getting you all upset about it, too. I thought I could just fix it myself. But now you know, I need you to stop trying to convince me not to marry Martha Rowland. The marriage needs to happen, or else we’ll lose the ranch. Maybe even the house.”
Spencer gripped the side of the paddock fence, squeezing so tight that his knuckles stood out white, and the wood creaked.
“It’s that bad?” he whispered.
“It’s that bad,” Rupert confirmed. “I’ll be straight with you when it’s just the two of us, but in public, I’ve got to be more careful. I’m not in love with Martha Rowland. Like I said before, the feeling is mutual. But this isn’t about love. It’s not about my feelings. It’s about saving the ranch and saving the family, and that’s all. That’s all, Spencer.”
Spencer stared at his brother, unable to look away from the misery in his eyes.
Who are you trying to convince? He thought, not entirely sure where the thought had even come from. Me, or yourself?
Aloud, he only said, “I understand, Rupert. I am sorry.”
He got a shrug in reply, and Rupert continued his inspection of the paddock. The empty paddock set to be filled with a shockingly expensive stallion that they probably couldn’t afford and might not even end up being profitable. Panic welled up in Spencer’s throat, like he’d just swallowed a knot of roots. The lump in his throat stuck, painful and itchy, refusing to go down no matter how much he swallowed.
“I’m sorry, too, Spence,” Rupert said, aiming another halfhearted kick at a fence post. “Hell, I’m sorrier than all of us, I think.”
“Unveiling the Rancher’s Heart” is an Amazon Best-Selling novel, check it out here!
Trapped in an arranged marriage in the untamed Wild West, Martha Rowland, a spirited young woman, sees little hope for love. Fate has other plans though when her groom elopes with his childhood sweetheart. To salvage her honor, his disapproving older brother agrees to marry her, and a turbulent journey of unexpected affection begins.
Can Martha break through the walls around his heart before it’s too late?
Spencer Mahoney, a rugged cowboy burdened by expectations and haunted by past disappointments, reluctantly enters a marriage of convenience with Martha Rowland. His mind walks on a tightrope between conflict and appreciation, as his disapproval battles against a hidden yearning for redemption…
Will Spencer transcend his reservations and find love amidst improbable circumstances?
As Martha and Spencer clash and collide in their forced union, a tender connection blooms amidst conflicts and shared dreams. However, a new challenge emerges, threatening to unravel the fragile threads of their love. In this tale of resilience and doubt, will Martha and Spencer discover that true devotion can arise from unlikely beginnings?
“Unveiling the Rancher’s Heart” is a historical western romance novel of approximately 80,000 words. No cheating, no cliffhangers, and a guaranteed happily ever after.