Spring Forward Read online

  PRAISE FOR CATHERINE ANDERSON’S NOVELS

  “One of the finest writers of romance.”

  —#1 New York Times bestselling author Debbie Macomber

  “Catherine Anderson doesn’t shy away from characters who face life’s toughest challenges—but she also gifts readers with a romantic tale that celebrates the hope and resilience of the human spirit.”

  —#1 New York Times bestselling author Susan Wiggs

  “Catherine Anderson writes with great emotional depth and understanding of complex relationships and family dynamics.”

  —#1 New York Times bestselling author Sherryl Woods

  “Catherine Anderson weaves beautiful stories overflowing with emotion and heart. The Christmas Room is an absolute keeper, destined to be read again and again.”

  —New York Times bestselling author RaeAnne Thayne

  “Master storyteller Anderson has skillfully penned the heart-wrenching story of domestic abuse and its aftermath . . . compelling.”

  —Booklist (starred review)

  “The minute you open an Anderson novel, you can immediately feel the vision of humanity and warmth that runs through all her books. No one does heartfelt romance better!”

  —RT Book Reviews

  “Romance veteran Anderson is a pro at making readers weep.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “[Anderson] has such a way with characters, making them real and lovable, that makes it impossible to put the books down.”

  —Bitten by Love

  “New Leaf is about family, starting over, and the lengths you would go to for a child. . . . Anderson created good tension and anticipation, but also balanced that with moments of humor.”

  —Harlequin Junkie

  “I am totally hooked. . . . Thank you, Catherine Anderson, for this wonderful story.”

  —The Reading Cafe

  “Sweet and inspirational.”

  —Smitten by Books

  “Mystic Creek was a close-knit, loving community that made you feel warmth and a giving human spirit . . . [a] heartwarming romance.”

  —The Reader’s Den

  “Heartwarming and heart-wrenching.”

  —Open Book Society

  “A good winter read in which love heals the worst wounds.”

  —The Romance Dish

  OTHER NOVELS BY CATHERINE ANDERSON

  “Mystic Creek” Novels

  Silver Thaw

  New Leaf

  Mulberry Moon

  “Harrigan Family” Novels

  Morning Light

  Star Bright

  Here to Stay

  Perfect Timing

  Contemporary “Coulter Family” Novels

  Phantom Waltz

  Sweet Nothings

  Blue Skies

  Bright Eyes

  My Sunshine

  Sun Kissed and Sun Kissed Bonus Book

  Historical “Coulter Family” Novels

  Summer Breeze

  Early Dawn

  Lucky Penny

  Historical “Valance Family” Novels

  Walking on Air

  The Comanche Series

  Comanche Moon

  Comanche Heart

  Indigo Blue

  Comanche Magic

  Other Berkley Books

  The Christmas Room

  Always in My Heart

  Only by Your Touch

  Coming Up Roses

  Cheyenne Amber

  A JOVE BOOK

  Published by Berkley

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

  Copyright © 2018 by Adeline Catherine Anderson

  Excerpt from The Christmas Room copyright © 2017 by Adeline Catherine Anderson

  Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.

  A JOVE BOOK and BERKLEY are registered trademarks and the B colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Ebook ISBN 9780399586354

  Cover art: background daffodils © Alexander Raths/Shutterstock; heeler pup © Fotolia; foreground daffodils © Master-L/Shutterstock; grass © antpkr/Shutterstock; close-up of grass © Ievgenii Meyer/Shutterstock

  Cover design by Colleen Reinhart

  Book design by Tiffany Estreicher

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  Version_1

  Sometimes an animal creates spectacular magic in the lives of the people around it and brings the most unlikely of friends together so they can find love where they never expected to find it.

  This book is dedicated to a dog named Rip who inspired me to write his story. I’d also like to thank his human mom, Renee Abbe, for all of her wonderful insights to help me portray Rip’s loyal nature, his funny quirks, and so many stories about his life. Given that this is a novel, I have fictionalized the scenes that feature Rip, but I’ve tried to remain true to Rip’s personality and bring him to life for you. He is an incredible canine and an unforgettable character.

  Much appreciation also goes to my son John for all the evenings he spent helping me to plot this fabulous story.

  Contents

  Praise for Catherine Anderson's Novels

  Other Novels by Catherine Anderson

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Excerpt from The Christmas Room

  Prologue

  Seven years ago

  A cutting Idaho wind, laced with the bawling of cattle, blew across the pasture and whined in Tuck Malloy’s ears. Winter would come soon. Squinting, he studied the tops of tall evergreen trees undulating against the horizon. Soon the verdant grassland would turn the color of fresh-baked bread, and the blue of the sky would deepen to rifle-barrel gray. Snow would shroud the land, covering the hills and filling in the gullies. Imagining that biting cold made his arthritic joints pang, an unwelcome reminder that he was seventy-three and not getting any younger.

  Tuck sighed, wi
shing he were anywhere but on his neighbor’s, Jared Prince’s, land. Unfortunately, there was an unspoken rule among ranchers in this area that a call for help from a fellow cattleman never went unheeded without good reason—and Tuck hadn’t had a believable excuse to stay home. He’d grumped to himself as he’d driven here with his horse in the stock trailer, but now, saddled up and ready to go, he’d resigned himself to a long day. He enjoyed working with cattle. He’d focus on that and try not to let Prince get his goat.

  Tuck guessed his animosity stemmed from the other man’s abusive treatment of his wife before she finally found the courage to leave him. She’d been a scrawny thing, and as timid as an oft-kicked dog. Tuck had seen her sporting bruises too many times to believe she was merely accident-prone. Jared Prince was a woman beater, no two ways around it, and Tuck had no use for men of his ilk.

  Cows bellowed as Tuck and other neighboring ranchers edged their horses into the milling herd. Jared hadn’t castrated or marked last spring’s calves yet. He was a lazy fellow and a procrastinator to boot. The aim today was to get all the postponed work done. Tuck disapproved of Jared’s timing. Early castration was less stressful for a calf, and physical recovery was normally faster. It was also easier on the men doing the work when the calves were small.

  Tuck pointed his gelding, Bolt, at a calf. His horse was well trained and only needed to be shown which critter he was supposed to single out. Mike Polson, the owner of a ranch a few miles south, manned the gate of the crowding pen. Just as Tuck pushed his first target inside the enclosure, he heard a canine yelping. It was the high-pitched cry of an animal in awful pain.

  Tuck turned in the saddle to see whose dog had gotten hurt. His blood heated when he realized it was Jared’s female blue heeler. Though her belly was swollen with pregnancy, Jared had chosen to work her today. Apparently, she had done something wrong, because Jared was leaning sideways in the saddle to jolt her with a cattle prod. The poor thing turned onto her back in surrender, giving her owner an opportunity to shock her swollen teats.

  It took a great deal to make Tuck see red. Over the years, he’d turned a blind eye to a lot of things that disgusted him, but he couldn’t and wouldn’t tolerate animal abuse. Without thinking it through, he bumped his heels against Bolt’s sides and the astonished horse jumped into a run. Tuck headed straight for Prince, still astride his mount, and leaped from the saddle onto his back. They both plummeted to the ground. Upon impact, Tuck rolled, struggled to his feet, and grabbed the prod that Prince had dropped. Pushing the pronged end against the fly of the other rancher’s jeans, he pressed the trigger.

  Prince screamed and huddled to protect his groin. Tuck didn’t hesitate and shocked him a second time on the back of his neck where bare skin was exposed. All Tuck got were those two chances to give Prince a taste of his own medicine. Then someone grabbed the prod and jerked it from his hand.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Polson had abandoned the gate and run over to intervene. “Damn, Tuck. Hotshots are for animals!”

  “Not for a pregnant dog that’s workin’ her heart out. I’d like to shove it up the bastard’s ass and light him up like a Christmas tree.” Tuck swung out of the man’s hold, picked up his Stetson, and strode back to his horse. “Y’all can turn a blind eye if you want. All I care about now is findin’ that poor dog and takin’ her to my place, where she’ll be safe.” He scanned the area. The blue heeler was nowhere in sight. “Which way did she go?”

  Polson pointed. “Down yonder toward the river.”

  Tuck mounted his gelding as Prince scrambled to his feet. “That bitch belongs to me!” he yelled, thumping his chest and taking a step toward Tuck. “I already have buyers for her pups. You’ll take her over my dead body!”

  “That can be arranged,” Tuck replied in a level voice. Prince stopped in his tracks. For the first time in his life Tuck felt capable of murder. He turned his horse toward the stream. Then he stopped to drill Prince with a glare. “A piece of advice to you, Jared. When I come back with that dog, stay the hell out of my way.”

  When Tuck reached the rocky bank of the river, he searched for the blue heeler’s tracks. After ten minutes, he felt his pulse slow to a normal rate, but even though his anger had diminished, he didn’t regret what he’d done and knew he never would. At least once in every man’s life there came a moment when he couldn’t stand aside and do nothing.

  A picture lingered in his mind of the dog, and the thought of her whelping out here alone made him heartsick. Even if she found shelter, she’d endure a cold night. She’d also have no food, and once her pups were born, she’d be hard-pressed to hunt. It didn’t seem fair that such a loyal and hardworking animal should suffer like that, and he hoped he could find her before darkness fell.

  He combed the riverbank until dusk. Tomorrow, he vowed as he turned back. He’d return at first light to search again, and he wouldn’t stop looking until he found her. She had more grit and stamina than a lot of men he knew, and she deserved a better life.

  * * *

  Once his ranch chores were done, Tuck spent nearly every afternoon for almost a month scouring the riverbank for Prince’s dog. At the end of each day, he swore it would be the last. Looking this long for an animal that might already be dead was crazy. Only, for reasons beyond him, he couldn’t give up the search. She couldn’t have traveled far. She’d been about to whelp the morning she ran away. Had she been able to leave her pups long enough to hunt for food? Had she found some shelter to shield herself and the babies from the wind? The questions haunted him and deprived him of sleep at night.

  He’d learned from a friend that the blue heeler’s name was Molly. He’d called her so many times that he’d grown hoarse. If she heard his voice, would she come to him? She might be so frightened of men that she’d hide instead, and Tuck couldn’t say he’d blame her.

  The rockiness of the shore made it difficult for him to find tracks, and even when he did come across some in sandy stretches, they were blurred by wind and rain. He couldn’t be sure if they’d been left by a dog or a coyote. Was he getting warm, or was he miles away from where Molly had holed up? If her puppies had survived, they’d be almost four weeks old by now. He wondered how many she might have had. Five, maybe six? Even as few as three would have suckled away the nutrients she needed to survive herself.

  Toward the end of that last day, Tuck still didn’t want to give up, but the weather forecast offered him no choice. About a week ago, it had turned colder, and tonight a foot of snowfall was predicted. He couldn’t ride his horse through deep drifts when the ground underneath was so uneven. Please, God, let me find her.

  He didn’t know why it was so important to him to rescue a dog. Maybe it was because he’d failed others so many times that he was loath to do it again. He’d done a poor job of raising his daughter, Lisa, allowing her to grow up expecting her every wish to be granted. Then, despite symptoms he should have recognized, he’d let his wife, Marge, die of cardiac arrest. Only a few years after that, he’d hemmed and hawed around before taking his granddaughter, Crystal, away from her neglectful parents. As a result, the child had been emotionally damaged before he got custody. Just once, he wanted to make a difference. Just once, he wanted to think ahead, react in time to change an outcome, and be able to say, “I did it right this time.”

  He’d ridden several miles upstream since early afternoon. When he turned around, he knew it would be a long, cold ride back to his stock trailer. He began the trek with a heavy feeling in his chest and the metallic taste of failure on his tongue. He called Molly’s name intermittently as he guided the gelding over the rocky ground. About halfway back to his starting point, he spotted what appeared to be a smooth, smallish boulder wedged under a high-water washout in the bank. Only, something about it made him stop and stare. Then he noticed a spot of rusty brown, and his heart started to pound.

  “Molly?” he said. “Molly, come here, g
irl.”

  Only, the dog didn’t move. If it was even a dog. After searching the woodlands that bordered the stream for so long, his eyes had begun to play tricks on him. He swung off the horse and walked toward the washout. As he drew closer, he could see the breeze furrowing the gray fur along the blue heeler’s spine. Molly. At long last, he’d found her.

  He rested his hand on her back and felt the coldness of death. How many times had he ridden past this spot? Had she been here all along, blocking the opening of the hollow with her body to protect her babies from the cold? A tight, squeezing sensation assailed his throat, and for a moment, he could barely breathe.

  “Aw, Molly,” he said softly. “I’m sorry, little lady.”

  Tuck slipped his hand over her body to feel inside the hole for her babies. His fingertips encountered six smaller shapes, all of them pressed against her belly and as cold and stiff as she was. He could only wish that he’d found them sooner.

  Just as he started to draw back his hand, he heard an odd sound, and the next instant, it felt as if a dozen needles stabbed his thumb. Startled, he jerked his arm from the hole. The face and front feet of a puppy emerged from between the upper lip of the washout and Molly’s body. Shrill barks and growls erupted from its scrawny chest, and then the little thing tumbled over its mother’s back and hit the rocks. Tuck had never in his life been so taken aback. Judging by the pup’s wobbly legs, it was weak with hunger and hanging on to life by a thread. But it had somehow survived and would have ripped him to shreds if it had had the size and strength.

  “I’ll be damned. With all that attitude, you’re a boy, I bet.”

  The pup jumped and gave another shrill bark, trying to bite his hand again.

  “Well, let ’er rip!” Tuck felt a grin lifting the corners of his mouth. “You tryin’ to protect your family, little fella?”

  The pup missed his mark, staggered forward, and then collapsed on his side. Concern wiped the smile from Tuck’s face. This baby was about to join his littermates on the other side. The thought appalled Tuck. But he had nothing by way of food to keep the pup alive while he made the long ride back to the stock trailer and then drove home.