Page 1 of His Saving Grace

Chapter 1

Gracewatchedthecloud of dust make its way toward the house. She leaned against the front porch railing, gripping the smooth wood until her fingers ached. The afternoon sun was bright, and she squinted, trying to get a look at the vehicle barreling down the driveway.

Comings and goings weren’t unusual at the ranch, but every time she got word of a vehicle approaching, she couldn’t let go of the urge to watch and wait. It was somewhat fatalistic, and recklessly stupid, but the idea of not knowing, of being surprised, snuck up on, was worse.

Curiosity killed the cat.The old, tired proverb flitted through her mind in a sing-songy echo. Hopefully not a premonition.

The seconds ticked by, the what-ifs pounding around inside her head, her stomach knotted up like silky threads of the friendship bracelets she used to make as a kid. Not that she’d had many friends. Either then, or now. The reminder caused each little knot to pull tighter with every hard thum-thump of her heart.

She shaded her eyes, and finally caught a glimpse of a blue, vintage pickup truck speeding out of the dust. The vehicle wasn’t familiar, but that meant nothing. She’d only been working at the ranch for a few weeks. But that caution she’d cultivated over the last few months refused to budge. She wiped her sweaty palms on her skirt, her knotted gut tightening to almost painful levels.

“The prodigal son returns.”

The unexpected voice sent her heart careening into her throat. Pressing her hand against her chest, she turned. She hadn’t heard anyone approach, her focus on the unknown newcomer.

Sam Baptiste, the ranch foreman, stood beside her, sipping on a glass of lemonade. He was tall and lean, with dark hair and eyes, his handsome face highlighted by sharp, angular features, courtesy of his Native American heritage.

“What?” She tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. No matter how tightly she pulled it back, strands always escaped. She still wasn’t used to the shorter length.

Sam tilted his chin in the direction of the truck. “That’s Mason Callahan’s truck. Hasn’t been seen on this ranch in… let’s see… fifteen years, now.”

“How do you know it’s him?”

Sam gifted her with a gorgeous smile. “That truck’s his baby. He rebuilt it from scratch. No one else was ever allowed to touch it. He wouldn’t even let Owen drive it, and those two were practically inseparable back then.”

Grace turned back. The truck came closer and closer to the house. And then, at what felt like the last second, it slid to a stop at the end of the driveway, kicking up a cloud of dust and spraying rocks in every direction.

“He was in Afghanistan. Got injured in the line of duty last year. A Major in the Army, honorably discharged through medical retirement.” Sam’s words sent a pang of sadness, possibly pity, flaring to life in her chest. He turned and disappeared into the house. If she was smart, she’d do the same.

Apparently, the California summer heat had fried her brain, because she stayed put.

The driver’s side door opened, and a tall, dark-haired man got out. He wore jeans, a plain navy-blue t-shirt, and aviator sunglasses. Unlike most of the men around here, he wasn’t wearing boots. He had on running shoes.

A gorgeous golden retriever bounded out behind him. The dog, excited at being free, jumped up. He nudged the dog down and pointed his finger in a clear reprimand.

Grace couldn’t hear what he said because he kept his voice low. He waited a beat and then reached down and ran his fingers over the dog’s head. The dog’s tongue flopped out of the side of its mouth, its tail sweeping back and forth a million miles a minute. The guy said something else and then made a shooing motion with his hand. The dog perked up and then raced the thirty or so feet to the porch. Mason followed at a much slower pace. He walked with a slight limp, favoring his right leg.

The clinician in her sized up the injury instantly. She’d bet just about anything he had a cane somewhere, one he was not using. Stupid, stubborn man, rejecting doctor’s orders. Did he not know he could be doing more damage? Macho tendencies, pure unadulterated vanity, and the need to never look weak. Those were always the reasons guys refused to follow simple directions.

The urge to rush to help him, to ease his suffering was almost too much. But she held back, barely. She was no longer that person, and she needed to remember that. No matter how much it hurt to ignore someone else’s pain.

The dog raced up the porch steps and came to a sliding stop at the top. Its tongue still hung out of its mouth, and she couldn’t help but smile.

Realizing she was far too distracted by the adorable dog, she turned her gaze back to this Mason Callahan.

He made his way toward the whitewashed front porch of the farmhouse. He was noticeably uncomfortable, his steps slow and careful. The closer he got, the more difficult pulling her gaze from him became.

He was definitely a Callahan. He had the same coloring and build as all the rest of them. Not that she doubted Sam. But she’d only started working at the ranch a few weeks ago, and Mason hadn’t come up in conversation.

The family portrait that hung over the fireplace in the living room included the entire family, so she knew there was another son. The picture had to be close to twenty years old, though, because Jake, the youngest Callahan, was no more than a boy in it. There were other family photos sprinkled throughout the house, but she had been drawn to the one of the soldier.

He was young in the photo, no older than eighteen or nineteen, decked out in his service uniform. Something about the photo—the lift of his chin, the set of his jaw, the gleam in his eyes—captivated her, and she stared at it often.

Curiosity had burned the tip of her tongue, but she hadn’t wanted to ask about him, in case he’d been killed in action or something. And yeah, she also hadn’t wanted anyone asking her any personal questions in return, so she’d kept her mouth shut.

Something soft brushed against her fingers. She looked down. The retriever had moved to sit next to her, looking up at her with soulful, trusting brown eyes. A little piece of her heart melted. She’d always been a sucker for animals.

“Hello, gorgeous.” She crouched, so she was eye level with the dog. The dog, panting from excitement, the California summer heat or both, leaned into her, almost knocking her over. Grace laughed and braced one hand against the wooden porch railing. She shuffled to her knees, squaring her position so she didn’t end up on her butt. She stroked the silky fur of the dog’s ruff.