Finding the Cowboy’s Family (Rowdy Ranch #11)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

K ieran Haggerty eased his rented vehicle into a diagonal parking space in front of a shop called Hannigan’s Western Wear. No doubt his granny would say finding an Irish establishment in the middle of Wagon Train was a sign.

He switched off the engine with a sigh of relief. Driving on the wrong side of the road all the way from the Missoula airport had been a challenge, especially with the massive lorries blocking his view.

But it could’ve been far worse. His mates had advised him to avoid jet lag by staying a night in New York. That had allowed him to book a morning flight out and make this drive in the middle of the day.

And a grand day it was. The August sun warmed his shoulders and the back of his neck when he climbed out of the vehicle.

He’d chosen to come in summer since he didn’t fancy battling snow and ice on this trip. His granny was worried enough about him as it was. After all, her only daughter had never returned from her journey to America thirty years ago.

To calm his granny’s fears, he’d bought her a mobile and taught her how to text so they could keep in touch. Speaking of that, he’d send her a picture of Hannigan’s Western Wear. She’d still be awake if she’d been playing cards with the neighbors.

He stepped up on the curb and zeroed in on the name lettered over the door. Then he added a message. I’m in Wagon Train. And look! A sign! Literally. He tacked on a laughing face emoji.

His granny wasn’t a fan of technology but she loved emojis. She chose images that caught her eye. Sometimes they fit the occasion, sometimes not. And if her finger slipped, anything was possible. She’d let it stand rather than trust the delete key.

Tucking away his mobile, he took note of his surroundings. The dog-eared postcard in his shirt pocket showcased the village from a different angle, but he still recognized the stone facade of the bank and the carved wooden doorway of the hotel next door.

The row of black lamp posts on either side of the street looked freshly painted and the footpath was free of litter. He appreciated that kind of civic pride.

Gazing toward the end of the street, he located the Fluffy Buffalo. The pub had come up during his online search to see if he could get a pint of Guinness in Wagon Train. He could and he would. After he’d bought a Stetson.

He'd spent years saving for this trip, fully aware the trail would grow fainter with time. By now it might have disappeared. Maybe he’d find no trace of his mum, but he wouldn’t go home empty-handed. He’d leave town wearing a Stetson purchased at Hannigan’s.

As he took a step toward the entrance, his mobile pinged. Pausing, he took it out of his pocket.

You made it, then. Hannigan’s it is. Do they have kin over here?” A four-leaf clover was followed by a dartboard and a weightlifter.

I’ll ask.

Did you get the hat you’ve gone on about? She added a hat-wearing face along with a palm tree and an elephant.

He texted back. Soon. I’ll take a picture.

What’s the time there?

Almost two.

Did you eat? She sent the licking lips face.

After I get the hat.

Promise? The weightlifter showed up again along with a rabbit.

Promise.

Bye, bye, then. This is costing you. A couple of hearts were followed by a whole row of flamingos.

Sending her a hug and a kiss, he disconnected. It was costing him, and she worried about that, too. But he’d created a budget that included an international calling plan, knowing she felt the distance between them like a knife in her heart. At this very moment she’d be lighting a candle and offering up a prayer to St. Joseph for his safekeeping.

Putting away his mobile, he crossed to the shop door and grasped the polished brass knob. Like many things in this village, the doorknob had a timelessness that appealed to him.

He stepped inside and was immediately dazzled. The earthy tang of leather blended with the crisp aroma of denim. Western hats of many different shades covered an entire wall, and boots of all colors lined the shelves of the opposite wall.

Racks of yoked shirts in every pattern and color imaginable took up space in the center of the shop, along with jeans and jackets in a mixture of plain and highly decorated styles. He was in cowboy country. Completely out of his element.

A young lad and his father were trying on boots, and two women — one ginger-haired and the other a brunette — stood over by the hat wall. The ginger had sparkles on the back pockets of her jeans but her sleeveless white top had no decorations at all. She secured her handbag over her shoulder, picked up a navy hat and settled it on her head. Then she stepped in front of a full-length mirror.

The other woman, who looked to be seven or eight months along judging from the round belly under her loose-fitting top, made enthusiastic comments about how grand the hat looked. Since she had no handbag, he made a guess she was a salesperson.

He wandered in that direction. The navy hat was a good choice. It complemented the bright waves that cascaded to the woman’s shoulders. As he approached, he caught her reflection in the mirror. His breath stalled. Green eyes, full lips, rosy cheeks. Beautiful. And familiar. As if he’d met her somewhere, which was impossible.

Her startled gaze locked with his and she turned. “Well, hello there. Where’d you come from?” Interest filled her expression. And a hint of delight.

His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. Eventually he got it to work again. “County Kildare.” She wouldn’t have heard of his tiny village so might as well not mention it.

“You’re from Ireland?”

“That I am.” And she wasn’t from Montana. She didn’t sound like the folks who’d rented him the vehicle in Missoula. Instead her accent put him in mind of the woman at the hotel desk in New York. “Do you live in Wagon Train?”

“No, not me. My two brothers do, though, and they never once mentioned an Irishman. How long have you lived here?”

“I’m visiting. Been in town all of fifteen minutes. I’m looking for a hat.”

“You’ve come to the right place.” The other woman smiled and held out her hand. “Welcome to Wagon Train and welcome to our store. I’m Justine Neubauer.”

“Not Hannigan?”

“I’m Justine Hannigan Neubauer. My mom and dad took over from my grandparents and now my husband Eddie and I run the place. Mostly. My folks still pitch in now and then.”

“And I’m Sara Armstrong.” The beauty with the green eyes reached out her hand.

“Kieran Haggerty.” He enjoyed her firm grip and held on a little longer than was polite, but she didn’t seem to mind. “Where’re you from, Sara?”

“New Jersey.” She grinned. “I don’t sound any more like the locals than you do. Are you with a tour?”

He shook his head. “I’m not. And before I forget—” Which he would if he kept staring at her. Releasing her hand, he turned to Justine. “My granny wants to know if any of the Hannigans came over from Ireland.”

“I think so, way back. I have an aunt in Indiana who’s into genealogy. She could give you the whole scoop. How long will you be staying?”

“A week.”

“Then I’ll have time to contact her and let you know. Did your granny come with you?”

“No, she’s not a traveler. And that’s a massive understatement. She and my grandpa went to Limerick on their honeymoon. Longest trip she’s ever taken.”

“You flew over by yourself?” Sara’s forehead puckered.

He smiled. “I wouldn’t say that. Every flight was jammers.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Just joking. Yes, I’m on my own.”

Justine looked confused, too. “Is Hannigan’s why you settled on coming to Wagon Train?”

That made him laugh. “Not at all. I’d never heard of your shop. It was a surprise to discover an establishment with an Irish name so I texted Granny a picture and she wanted me to ask.”

Sara continued to study him, a slight crease between her eyebrows. “Although it’s none of my business, I’m dying to know. Why Wagon Train?”

Before he could answer, she lit up.

“Oh! I’ll bet it’s M.R. Morrison!”

“Who?”

“The author. The announcement just came out about her.”

“Did she die?”

“No, she….” Smiling, she gave a little shrug. “It’s not important. I’m being nosy.”

“I don’t mind saying why I’m here.” Sara wouldn’t be a source of information, but Justine’s parents would have been running the shop at the time the postcard was mailed.

He pulled it out of his shirt pocket. “Thirty years ago my mum traveled to America with a man named Ronny Smith, a plonker, for sure. She sent postcards along the way, and this is the last one that came. We never heard from her again.”

Sara’s breath hitched. “Thirty years ago?”

“That’s a long time,” Justine said, her voice soft.

“I doubt she’s alive. A postcard isn’t much to go on, but if there’s any chance I can find out what happened to her….”

“Of course.” Compassion darkened Sara’s green eyes. “How old were you when she left?”

“Barely two. Granny convinced her not to take me.”

She nodded. “Good for your granny.”

“I’ll find out what my folks know,” Justine said. “Do you have a picture?”

“I do, yeah.” Plucking his wallet from his back pocket, he took out the worn photo of him sitting on her lap. Her long dark hair was wavy like his. Although the picture didn’t show her eye color well, Granny said she’d had green eyes. Did he remember? Almost.

“Let me get my phone.” Justine hurried over to the sales counter.

“I’ll take a picture of it, too.” Sara pulled a mobile out of her handbag and glanced at him. “If that’s okay.”

“It’s better than letting the original out of my sight.”

“You should never do that.” She leaned in to get the shot, bringing her intriguingly spicy scent closer. “She’s very pretty.”

How kind of her to use the present tense.

“I suppose that’s you.”

“Yes.”

“You were a cute baby.”

“Most are at that age.”

Justine returned with her mobile and quickly took a picture of the photo. “I’ll show it to Mom and Dad first chance I get and see if they remember. Did you say her name? I didn’t catch it if you did.”

“Freya.” He turned the postcard over so her signature was visible, in case Justine didn’t know how to spell it.

His mum had made a production of signing her name — an elaborate F, a big loop for the y and a flourish at the end. “Freya Haggerty.”

“Got it.” She made a note on her mobile and took down his number. “If they had any contact with her at all, I think they’ll remember a woman from Ireland visiting Wagon Train.”

“I hope so.”

“I’ll let you know.” She glanced up. “Can you guys hang here for a bit while I help those two with their boot purchase? Eddie’s at the barber’s so it’s just me for the next thirty minutes or so.”

He nodded. “I can wait.”

“We’ll be fine, Justine. I’ll see if I can sell him a hat.”

“Go for it.”

As she hurried away, Sara turned to him. “Obviously I don’t know anything about your mom since I don’t even live here, but I’m staying with people who might have information.”

“Oh?”

“It so happens I’m visiting for a week, too. If you’re open to it, I’d like to help.”

What an amazing offer. “But you’re on holiday. You must have plans.”

“Sure, but they’re flexible. Nothing’s a command performance except the combined birthday celebration for my sister and brother on Saturday night.”

His heartbeat quickened at the prospect of spending more time with her. He was strongly attracted, but he could dial it back. This wasn’t the time or the place. Besides, anyone who looked like her would surely have someone special in New Jersey.

He met her gaze. “Then thank you. I’d very much like your help.”

“Great.” She gave him a brilliant smile. “Let’s start with your hat.”