Prologue
"You're too nice."
Maggie Hale groaned and dropped her head into her hands. "Not this again."
She was seated across the nook table from her cousin Scarlett in the original Triple H ranch house, where Scarlett and her husband Miles lived. The remnants of breakfast—biscuit crumbs, the empty gravy bowl, a few scrambled egg curds, and a plate with a lone piece of bacon—were spread out between them.
Maggie needed more coffee if her cousin was going to keep spouting nonsense.
Scarlett pointed her fork. "Everyone knows the ranch house is the best place to live, but you and Uncle Gideon built that bungalow down by the stock pond.Nice."
"You were here first." Maggie stood and went to the coffeepot. Thankfully, Scarlett made industrial-strength French Roast. Outside the window, dawn was lighting the sky with streaks of silver.
Maggie liked the bungalow. It was small. Cozy.
"Miles and I were here first,” Scarlett said, “but you're royalty. You could've kicked us out."
As if Maggie needed to be reminded that she couldn’t be just plain old Maggie. She was Princess Margaret, fifth in line for the throne of Glorvaird.
She would never think to kick Scarlett and Miles out of their home. An exclamation stating just that was on the tip of Maggie's tongue, but if she uttered it, she'd just prove her cousin was right. Scarlett and Miles and their toddler daughter Richelle lived in the ranch house with Scarlett's mom, Maggie’s Aunt Carrie, and her stepdad Trey. It was a multi-generational household that worked for them.
Scarlett swiped the last piece of bacon as Maggie approached the table warily. She pointed it at Maggie. "Too nice." And crunched into the crispy goodness.
"Hey!" Maggie’s protest was halfhearted. She knew better than to try and keep food from a pregnant woman. Scarlett's baby bump—this was her second child—was barely noticeable, and they hadn't announced anything yet, but Maggie had been around for Scarlett's first pregnancy and knew the signs. Frequent irritability, food cravings, know-it-all-ness. That one was pure Scarlett, though, pregnant or not.
"I am nice," Maggie admitted, because Scarlett was partly right. She was nice, but she wasn'ttoonice. "But that has nothing to do with getting the charity board to fund this riding program."
The therapeutic riding program was Maggie's heart-project. Getting it off the ground was the one thing she wanted to accomplish before she turned thirty in five years.
Horses had been her refuge when she'd needed one the most. And there were so many kids out there dealing with anxiety, abandonment, being bullied.
Her program could help.
She just needed the other board members to buy in.
"You need to throw your weight around,” Scarlett said. “Wear your tiara to the next board meeting and remind those old geezers who you are.Youstarted the foundation."
Technically, Maggie's dad had started it when she'd been nineteen. He'd told her he wanted her to run it. And since he rarely asked her for anything, she'd agreed.
It had been her first time into Dallas since—
In the other room, the back door opened and closed. Probably one of the hands stomping into the mudroom to report to Scarlett, who acted as foreman for the cattle operation.
But it wasn't a cowboy who appeared.
It was Maggie's mirror-image. Her twin, who hadn't visited the Triple H Ranch in at least five years.
"Tirith. What are you doing here?"
1
This was never going to work.
Maggie wobbled across the carpeted expanse of her sister's living room, tilting and twisting on heels that felt like stilts. The palace walls were thick stone and would muffle any sounds she made.
She was no rodeo clown, but she'd probably get some laughs if she tried to wear these heels and pitched hiney over teakettle in front of the photographers who followed her family around any time they stepped foot out of the royal palace.
Muttering words that were certainly not suitable for her station, Maggie peeled off one torture device and then the other—otherwise known as Louboutins.
