Small Town Hero

by Linda Lael Miller, Maisey Yates

Genres: Anthologies

Synopsis

Bestselling authors Linda Lael Miller and Maisey Yates team up for a western romance anthology celebrating the men who risk their lives every day to keep their communities safe - the quintessential small-town hero!

The towns may be small, but the hearts of the cowboy heroes in this duo of romantic novellas are as outsized as the rugged land that surrounds them . . .

ONE LONESOME COWBOY
by Linda Lael Miller
When a family crisis brings web designer and part-time house flipper Susannah Holiday to Arizona to care for her young niece, she’s soon juggling work, childcare—and her growing feelings for local paramedic and horse whisperer Ian McKenzie. They have more in common than meets the eye—including being cautious when it comes to love. But when a disturbing revelation from Susannah’s past surfaces, Ian is there to comfort her, and they both find their longing hearts opening to a better future—together . . .

COWBOY, TAKE ME AWAY
by Maisey Yates
After Birdie Lennox, daughter of a notorious cattle rustler, gets caught stealing a horse off Gunnar Parsons’ land, she ends up bunking in his barn to work off her debt—plus her daddy’s. But Birdie hardly has patience for Gunnar’s moralizing. The man inherited his ranch and has always hated her family. Still, it beats prison. Maybe. What neither anticipates is discovering they have more in common than they dreamed possible. Even more unexpected is the spark between them—and the love it might ignite . . .

Release date: June 24, 2025

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 208

Sample

Chicago, Illinois

Susannah Holiday pressed her smartphone to her ear and her gray and black tabby cat, Nico, to her side as she listened to the caller’s voice. Distinctly female, the sound seemed to fade in and out, as though it were crackling its way from a distant galaxy, bouncing from one planet to another, rather than some satellite orbiting the Earth.

“Your sister, Rebecca Bennet—psychiatric ward—child in temporary care of a friend—”

Hot tears scalded Susannah’s eyes, and she blinked them back. Sucked in a steadying breath, and loosened her grip on Nico.

He leapt, with a low and indignant meow, to the kitchen floor and, tail bristling, sashayed his way out of the room.

Susannah leaned against the counter and shoved a hand through her dark shoulder-length hair. The pain reminded her that she was wearing a ponytail that morning.

“Yes,” she managed, after a small inner struggle. “Yes, I’m Becky’s—Rebecca’s—sister, actually. Her only living relative, besides little Ellie.”

Ellie. Susannah’s heart ached for the child. She’d been abandoned by her no-account father several years before, and Becky, though she loved her daughter fiercely, was fragile emotionally.

Three years older than Susannah, Becky had struggled with mental health since middle school. She’d suffered some trauma back then, one she refused to discuss, even with her therapists, evidently.

A stab of guilt knifed through Susannah.

I should have done more.

But what?

Becky hadn’t been willing to confide in her; no matter how much she’d pleaded, cajoled, and finally nagged, that one mysterious area of Becky’s life had remained inaccessible.

She’d helped Becky and Ellie in other ways, especially financially, for a long time, pitching in for rent or groceries now and then, and even paid for Becky’s intermittent counseling sessions, but that obviously hadn’t been enough.

Susannah supposed she should have joined her sister and her niece in the small town of Copper Ridge, Arizona, long ago, but she’d loved living in the busy buzz of Chicago; she had friends here, a business creating websites, and a thriving side-hustle, flipping houses.

“We’ve placed Ellie with a local couple, Jack and Harper O’Ballivan, for the time being,” the female voice droned on, professional, smooth, without inflection. “Mrs. O’Ballivan works as a counselor in the school Ellie attends, so they’re acquainted. The O’Ballivans are reputable people and they are willing to serve as foster parents to her if needed. That said, we usually prefer to place a child with a responsible family member, if at all possible, which is why we are contacting you.”

“Of course.” Susannah was shivering, even though that day in early June was sunny and warm, verging on hot. “I’ll be there as soon as I can make arrangements.” She stiffened her spine, turned to grab a glass from the cupboard, filled it from the tap. Drank thirstily. “Could you tell me again how Becky is doing? Which hospital she’s in? I’m afraid I missed some of what you said at first. I was in shock, I think.”

“Certainly, Ms. Holiday.” The woman waited politely, having guessed, it seemed, that Susannah was scrabbling in a drawer for a notepad and pen.

“I’m ready,” Susannah said, when she was.

As the social worker spoke, Susannah scribbled down the details.

The conversation ended, and Susannah’s first call was to her preferred airline.

She booked a flight for midafternoon.

Her second was to a company that specialized in transporting vehicles and other belongings from one place to another. She would need her practical SUV when she reached Arizona, though she planned to use a rental car until it arrived, and she couldn’t leave her desktop behind, either.

Practically her entire life was on that computer.

In the interim, she could use her laptop to keep up with her current design projects and the duplex she was renovating in one of the city’s leafy suburbs.

The last call, before she hauled out her suitcases and Nico’s much-despised cat-carrier, was to Harper O’Ballivan, the woman looking after Ellie. She introduced herself and asked if this was a good time to speak to her niece.

There was a warm smile in Harper’s voice. “Absolutely,” she replied. “She’s right here. School’s out, as of yesterday, and Ellie and I have been baking cookies this morning. We’ll be taking some to her mom, after lunch.”

Susannah’s throat knotted with emotion. “Thank you,” she said, with an effort.

“No problem,” Harper answered.

And then Ellie was on the line. “Auntie Susannah?” she asked tentatively.

Ellie was twelve, as of her last birthday, but she sounded much younger.

“None other,” Susannah confirmed, forcing a positive note. “I’m on my way, sweetheart. I know this is a scary situation, but we’ll handle this together—you, me and your mom. Everything will be all right, I promise.”

While she awaited her niece’s response, Susannah offered a silent but fervent prayer that she’d be able to keep her word.

There was sweet relief in Ellie’s sigh. “Okay,” she said.

“You’re safe there, where you are? With the O’Ballivans? You can use our secret word if you’re not. Do you remember it?”

“Yes,” Ellie answered, sounding stronger. “But we don’t need it. Mr. and Mrs. O’Ballivan are really nice. They’re doing lots of stuff to help Mom, and me, too. And Gideon is teaching me to ride ponies. He’s their son.”

Susannah’s weighted heart lifted a little. “Good. I’ll see you soon, honey.”

“Are you bringing Nico?” The question was cautiously hopeful. Nico and Ellie had established a friendly relationship during her and Becky’s last visit to Chicago, six months before.

“Yes,” she answered, without hesitation. Nico could be a first-class furry butthead, but Susannah loved him without reservation. She’d rescued him, as a mewling, half-starved kitten, when she’d seen him tossed from a car parked along a roadside and then left behind.

A mental checklist was forming in her mind.

Of course she’d have to pack some clothes, cosmetics and toiletry items, devices and chargers, etc.

And stop off at the vet’s office for a last-minute health check and a sedative for Nico, so—hopefully—the feisty feline wouldn’t yowl pitifully throughout the flight to Flagstaff and drive the passengers and crew around the bend.

For the moment, though, Nico’s potential disruptive behavior was the least of Susannah’s worries.

She needed to get to her sister and her niece.

Fast.

Ian McKenzie stood on the deck of his modest ranch house, watching as the pickup truck turned off the main road, loaded horse trailer bumping along behind it, and labored up the dirt driveway.

Six horses this time.

Ian strode toward the corral and, reaching it, swung open the gate.

Clouds of dust billowed in the soft heat of that June morning while Knute Carlson, an animal lover and good friend to Ian, tooted the horn in greeting and then maneuvered the truck and trailer, backing up to the corral entrance.

Meanwhile, Ian’s aging three-legged dog, Dub, confined to the kitchen, barked frantically from behind the sliding glass door on the deck, desperate to get out of the house and join in whatever ruckus might arise.

Or to cause one.

Ignoring the dog, Ian met Knute when he climbed out of that rattle-trap old truck and thrust out a hand in greeting.

“Mornin’, Ian,” Knute responded, extending his own hand. “Me and Erma sure do appreciate you taking on these poor critters. Our barn is full-up and the pasture’s getting crowded, too, now that we’re running a few cattle on the place.”

“Glad to help,” Ian replied, his voice a little gruff. He knew every horse in that trailer had suffered, and the thought always choked him up.

Knute gave him a knowing look. He, too, felt deep sympathy for mistreated or injured animals; that was why he did his level best to look after them.

Knute and his wife, Erma, were big-hearted folks, both retired from their long-term factory jobs, and instead of kicking back and enjoying their free time, they’d immediately decided to devote whatever might remain of their lives to rescuing horses.

Ian’s respect for them ran deep, and it was solid as bedrock.

Knute was starting to slow down physically, though, but Ian knew it was no use asking him to step aside and let him, Ian, unload the horses this time around. The old man was too proud to allow that.

Knute grinned, adjusted his battered baseball cap, and rounded the trailer to lower the steel ramp, open the door and step inside.

The horses were agitated, and there was a lot of stomping and neighing going on. If they were stirred up enough to start kicking, Knute could be trampled, cut to pieces by flying hooves, or both.

Ian silently reminded himself that his friend had a lot of experience wrangling horses. Besides, he himself was a paramedic, and his equipment was nearby, stashed in the back of his own truck—but that didn’t do much to ease his worries about Knute’s safety.

Back in the house, Dub was still barking his brains out.

Ian shook his head and waited.

Sure enough, Knute put halters on each of the horses, one by one, and led them down the ramp from the trailer. Then Ian led them into the corral, where the water trough was full and the feeders bristled with fresh, fragrant hay, removed their halters, and examined them for injuries or signs of disease.

All six of them were mares, which simplified things a little. Geldings were all right, but stallions, especially wild ones, were another matter. In the years he’d been rescuing, training and rehoming these animals, he’d dealt with every known variation—kickers, biters, belly-to-the-sky buckers.

And he’d loved every one of them. Ached inside when new and carefully vetted owners arrived to lead them back into horse trailers and haul them away to a new home.

“You off work the whole day?” Knute asked, once the trailer was empty, dragging an arm across his sweating forehead and readjusting his ball cap again.

“Four days on, three days off,” Ian explained. He’d outlined his work schedule to Knute more than once, but he could see no reason to point that out. If his friend was getting a little forgetful as he aged, well, that was normal, wasn’t it?

“Erma’s hoping you can come to our place for Sunday dinner,” Knute ventured. “I reckon she’s looking to introduce you to another of her younger friends from church.”

Ian grinned, though he was careful not to let Knute see. He was happy with his life as it was, for the time being, and he didn’t see any point in beating the figurative brush for another spouse.

He and Catherine, his former wife, were still friends, though they didn’t see each other often. She’d remarried six months ago, but fortunately, she still sent Ian’s nine-year-old twin stepdaughters, Mabel and Vivian, to spend six weeks of the summer with him, on his small ranch just outside of Copper Ridge.

He loved those children as his own, since they’d been toddlers when he and Catherine met and married. Since their father had died in a car accident two months before they were born, Ian had been the only father they’d ever known.

And they were due to arrive Sunday morning.

He planned to welcome them with a houseful of banners and balloons and maybe a few presents, though every visit was preceded by an email or phone call from Catherine, warning him not to spoil the twins.

“I wish I could join you,” Ian said, and that was true. Erma’s cooking was stellar, and the regular gatherings at her and Knute’s well-maintained double-wide on their small farm were lively and a lot of fun, Erma’s constant matchmaking aside. “But I’ll be headed for the Flagstaff airport to pick up the kids that morning.”

Knute grinned. “Well, that’s as good a reason as any to miss out on Erma’s lasagna pizza,” he told Ian, with a note of jovial letdown in his voice. “But you know what my dear wife would say if she was here: Bring ’em. There’s always room at our table.”

Regretfully, Ian shook his head. He was watching the horses out of the corner of one eye: five were crowded around the feeders, but the sixth stood, head drooping, in a far corner of the corral.

That one would need extra care. Immediately.

Otherwise, the tattered little mare might become a scapegoat.

“Some other time, Knute,” he said. “The kids will need to settle in after the flight from Miami, and I haven’t seen them since Christmas, so we’ll have some catching up to do.”

This last part was something of a stretch, since Ian was on FaceTime with his daughters twice a week, so he saw them pretty regularly. Problem was, communicating online wasn’t the same as being with them in person.

Knute let the subject go at that, shook Ian’s hand again, then slid the ramp back in place under the trailer, closed and latched the door and ambled around to the driver’s side door of his truck.

With a nod of farewell, the older man climbed into the seat with admirable agility, for a man more than twice Ian’s age—started the rumbling engine, and drove off down the driveway.

Before turning back onto the road, he honked again.

Ian chuckled to himself and waved.

Then he climbed over the corral fence and approached the shivering little mare, every movement slow and—he hoped—reassuring to the frightened animal.

“Hey, Ragamuffin,” he greeted her gently, extending a hand for her to sniff with her velvety nose.

The mare shuffled backwards, only to bump into the fence behind her.

“Easy,” Ian whispered. “You’re safe now. Nobody’s going to hurt you.”

She nickered, tossed her head in a slight motion that nevertheless indicated that there was still spirit, somewhere inside her.

He stood with her for a long time, stroking her bony sides when she’d allow it, murmuring tender gibberish.

After fifteen minutes or so, he put a halter on her and she allowed him to lead her into the barn.

It was shadowy and cool inside, smelling pleasantly of grain and straw and saddle soap, despite the inevitable undercurrent of manure.

His own horses—the “keepers,” he called them—were out grazing in a nearby pasture, which was probably a plus, given how nervous the little mare was, even after the time he’d spent comforting her.

Chipwick and Apple Pie, the black and white spotted ponies the twins rode when they visited, probably wouldn’t have kicked up a fuss at the newcomer’s arrival, though they’d have a thing or two to say about the other five coming in later on to fill the empty stalls.

Ian’s powerful palomino gelding, Sultan, knew he was the head honcho, and he paid little or no attention to the barn-mates who came and went. Mostly.

He’d tangled with a young stallion a year ago, another visitor, Sultan had, but, though he’d come out the winner, he had a few scars to remember the incident by. Other than that, and the usual challenges of training any horse, let alone the mistrustful sort, there hadn’t been a lot of trouble.

Reaching the enclosure he’d chosen for the ragamuffin, Ian brought his thoughts back to the matter at hand, opened the stall door, and carefully led the hesitant m. . .