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Harlequin American
ISBN: 978-0373752409
November 2008
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Buy!
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The Cowboy and The Angel
Tis the Season…For Miracles?
Renée Sweeney will do whatever it takes to keep a roof over the heads of Detroit's
street kids. Even if it means stepping in front of a ten-ton wrecking ball aimed at
their temporary home. And especially if it means clashing with gorgeous corporate
cowboy Duke Dalton.
To Duke, the blue-eyed blonde seems more like an angel than a social worker. Until he
discovers a group of runaways camping out in his warehouse! The Tulsa businessman came
to set up shop in a new town, not provide free housing for the masses. But Renée and the
kids are making him rethink his bottom line…and what the spirit if the Christmas season
really means.
Now his cowboy Santa is looking to give Renée--and her young charges--a gift straight
from his heart!
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This story packs a punch in more ways than one. Though it's certainly a romance it's also a story
that makes a person stop and think about their priorities. Renée is passionate about her career as
a social worker, partly because of her past, but partly because her heart is so huge. Duke quickly
discovers that in order to create a future with Renée, he needs to understand and take part in that
piece of her life, something he does with gusto. Duke is the kind of man we all dream of falling for.
The strength of this story is definitely in the emotion--between Duke and Renée and between both of
them and the kids. A strong secondary cast makes up this book, and I was overjoyed to discover there
is a sequel coming soon. I only wish it were about how the six kids she rescued were doing in life.
I was so thoroughly caught up in them that the ending of this story made me cry...happy tears. If
you're looking for a book to really show you the meaning of the holiday season, then I highly
recommend The Cowboy and the Angel. It's earned a spot on my keeper shelf.
--- Poppy
www.longandshortreviews.com
The romance between the COWBOY AND THE ANGEL is
cleverly done to serve as a backdrop in many ways to saving the children as Marin Thomas makes each
of her teens and preadolescents seem fully developed with genuine flaws and fears. Thus besides a
strong contemporary romance, the audience sees a powerful look at how complex and difficult social
work can be. This is a great tale and perhaps Ms. Thomas can provide a futuristic anthology
focusing on these children as adults (instead of where are they now – where will they be).
--- Harriet Klausner
Social worker Renee and developer Duke face off over the future of a Detroit building that's
illegally housing six runaways. When Renee lets Duke in on the secret, he helps her to get
all the kids homes for the holidays. Duke wins her heart with his treatment of the children,
but can he convince her to forget her past and give his love a chance? Packed with details
about the Detroit area and the challenges of social work, The Cowboy and
the Angel (4 1/2 ), by Marin Thomas, is a heartwarming story.
The standout supporting characters will have readers clamoring for spin-off stories, but Thomas
deserves special props for writing six children and teenagers whose attitudes and actions are
believable!
--- Whitney Kate Sullivan,
www.romantictimes.com
Social worker Renee wants to give a special group of homeless kids living in an abandoned
warehouse a real Christmas. But her plans to save them go awry when real estate developer
Duke Dalton swaggers in, ready to knock down the warehouse. The cowboy is mightily impressed
by the petite blonde, and comes to love the children under her care and her cause. But
does Renee's heart have enough room for him, as well as all the needy children of Detroit?
This was a lovely story--a well-researched tale that looks into the plight of homeless children
and orphans. Thomas has penned a heartbreaking eye-opener, and one that will leave you aching.
--- Vicki So
www.eharlequin.com
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Chapter One
Renée Sweeney stood defiantly in front of the ten-ton wrecking ball and glared at the crane operator inside the cab. The man's mouth twisted from side-to-side, but she couldn't hear a word over the rumbling engine--probably a good thing. No doubt he was spewing cuss words.
Too bad. If she had her way the 1893 Screw Works Factory Warehouse along the historical Detroit Riverfront would remain standing--long enough for her to come up with a plan for the six little problems taking refuge inside the marked building.
The brisk December wind shoved her off-balance, but she locked her knees and managed to remain upright. A moment later, the squeal of the machine's grinding gears ceased and an eerie silence reverberated through the air. Thank goodness.
The operator climbed from the cab and jabbed a meaty finger in her direction. "Hey, Lady! What the hell are you doing?"
Wasn't it obvious?
"I'm calling the cops," he raged.
Typical male--jump to conclusions first, ask questions later. He pulled a cell phone from his coat pocket, then promptly stomped out of hearing range. If his wild arm gestures were any indication, the 911 operator was receiving an earful.
Renée snuggled deeper into her white ankle-length goose-down coat. In her rush to reach the Riverfront, she'd grabbed her scarf but had forgotten her gloves. The day's high of thirty-eight was losing ground fast against the projected overnight low of ten degrees. Hopefully she'd accomplish her mission--keeping the decrepit warehouse behind her intact--before all ten of her digits blackened from frostbite. At least the scarf prevented her ears from curling up and dropping off her head.
With watery eyes she searched for a windbreak but the few barren trees that called the concrete parking lot home were useless. She was tempted to take shelter in the giant holly bushes that hid the first floor of the building but feared the crane operator would set the ball swinging at her retreat. Once in a while her job as a social worker required creative action to protect children at risk, but challenging a wrecking ball was a bit extreme and Renée doubted her boss, would approve.
Across the parking lot a handful of construction workers huddled inside their vehicles smoking cigarettes while their boss dealt with this latest interruption. A hot coffee from the men would have been a nice thank you for shortening the end of their work week.
Renée's stomach grumbled, reminding her that she'd skipped lunch. She glanced at her watch. Four o'clock. In a few minutes the cops would arrive. Hopefully by the time the police sent her on her way with a warning, it would be too dark to proceed with the demolition.
The crane operator snapped his cell phone shut, tossed a gnarly glare over his shoulder, then proceeded to make another call--probably the fire department in the event Detroit's finest were engaged in more important activities such as apprehending real criminals. She wiped her runny nose on the back of her coat sleeve and stared at the river across the street. This time of year few boats navigated the chunks of ice floating on the water, turning the Riverfront into a nautical ghost town. The Screw Works building sat in the middle of the Warehouse District among several turn-of-the-century structures.
The area was completely and utterly desolate, and she questioned the sanity of the fool who'd purchased the derelict property between the Renaissance Center and Belle Isle. A short while ago she'd chatted with her brother, a Detroit police officer, and he'd mentioned the demolition equipment while patrolling the area. Stomach knotted in fear, she'd rushed to the warehouse, praying she'd arrive before disaster struck.
Renée rocked forward on the balls of her feet, adding another inch to her five-foot-five height and braced herself for round two as the crane operator marched toward her, the stub of an unlit cigar bobbling between his fleshy blue lips. Eyes narrowed, he paused several feet away. His yellow hardhat left his ears exposed and the two appendages glowed the same bright-red color as the bulbous tip of his nose.
"I don't know what your cause is, lady. Don't much give a shit. I've been paid to demolish this building and haul the rubble away by the end of next week. If I miss that deadline, I lose a lotta money." He motioned to the group of idling trucks. "You wouldn't want those guys going without pay, seeing how their kids are expecting gifts from Santa under the tree in a few weeks."
Renée had a soft spot for children--why else would she do a fool thing like take on a construction crane in the bitter cold? If the workers went without a paycheck, their kids might not receive every item on their Santa wish list, but at least they'd have a roof over their heads and a warm meal on Christmas day--more than the kids she hoped to protect from Bob the Builder and his demolition crew.
Police sirens whined through the air, saving her the trouble of responding. A squad car squealed to a stop and two officers stepped from the vehicle. Drat! Her brother, Rich and his partner, Pete had taken the call.
"Hi, guys," Renée greeted, when the cops drew within hearing distance. She wanted to offer her brother a reassuring smile but feared her bottom lip would split open and drip blood onto her white coat.
Pete's gaze swung from the crane to the construction foreman to Renée. Rich leveled a what-have-you-gone-and-done-now glare at her, then stood sentry at her side. A silent laugh shook her chest when the cigar tumbled from the foreman's mouth and bounced off the top of his steel-toe work boot.
Over the years, she'd developed friendships with several Detroit policemen. Often she required their assistance in removing children from abusive homes and placing them into protective custody. The officers understood and turned a blind eye when Renée bent the rules to do what was best for the child. She prayed her brother and his partner would cut her some slack this afternoon.
As dusk shrouded the parking lot like a heavy cloak, concealing the water, piers and moorings along the river, a chorus of revving truck engines erupted and the work crew left.
"What's going on?" Pete asked.
Grabbing at straws, she spouted, "I'm not sure this gentleman has obtained the proper permit to demolish this building."
Rich gaped at her as if she'd lost her mind. Her fifty-three-year-old brother had survived thirty-one years on the force without getting shot or injured on the job--a miracle by most standards.
Pete came to her rescue. "Mind if I see the paperwork?"
The foreman stomped his boot like a two-year-old throwing a temper tantrum and demanded, "Who the hell is this woman?"
"Watch your mouth, Mr.," Rich warned.
Sputtering, her adversary returned to the crane, crawled inside the cab, flung things around, then stormed across the pavement. Hot air spewed out of his nostrils, forming a misty cloud above his head. "Work orders." He shoved the papers at Pete.
A twinge of empathy for the irate man caught Renée by surprise, but she pushed it aside. She needed the warehouse more than the foreman needed to swing his wrecking ball.
"Appears official," Pete said.
"Then she's gotta haul ass and get out of the way, right?" A fleck of spittle at the corner of his mouth froze into a white ice ball.
"Depends..."
"On what?" The man's gaze dropped to Pete's gun holster.
"Whether the permit is on file at city hall."
"How the heck should I know? That's the property owner's responsibility. My job is to demolish this hell hole."
"Tomorrow's Saturday," Rich cut in. "City Hall is closed. We'll verify the permit first thing Monday morning. Until then you'll have to shut down."
"What seems to be the problem here, Mr. Santori?"
Renée jumped inside her skin at the deep, throaty rumble and spun. Tall, broad shouldered, wearing a sheepskin jacket, and a cowboy hat--a ridiculous choice of headgear for freezing weather--the stranger joined the group. Her gaze traveled the length of his long jean-clad legs, stopping at his snakeskin boots. He was no ordinary cowboy who'd wandered in off the range. This roper reeked of money. Renée immediately disliked him.
"Mr. Dalton, this broad--"
Rich cleared his throat nosily, and Mr. Santori amended, "--this lady planted herself in front of the crane and refused to budge. What was I to do? Bean her in the head with twenty-thousand pounds of steel?"
The cowboy grinned and Renée wished she had an object to bean him with. "No, we certainly don't want any harm to come to…?" His sexy voice trailed off and a few seconds passed before she collected her scattered wits.
"Renée Sweeney."
"Duke Dalton."
Duke? What kind of name was that? Sounded like a moniker one would give a bulldog or porn star.
Mr. Dalton's large, bare hand swallowed hers, and she held on longer than necessary, soaking up the heat from his calloused fingers. After he shook hands with Pete and Rich, a tense silence followed.
Disgusted, Mr. Santori waved a hand in the air. "This one's all yours, Mr. Dalton. Unless I hear otherwise, I'll be back with my crew bright and early Monday morning." Muttering under his breath, the grumpy man headed for his truck.
"You are aware this is Detroit?" she asked. The hair peeking out from under Mr. Dalton's cowboy hat was a rich brown color with a few auburn strands thrown in for contrast. "Texas is west of the Mississippi."
Pete and Rich chuckled.
Stone-faced, the cowboy ignored her sass. "What organization are you representing?"
Organization? "I'm not. This building--" She pointed behind her. "--has historical value and shouldn't be touched." In truth several of the warehouses along the river had historical significance, but that didn't guarantee they'd stand in place forever.
"There's not much left of the building worth saving," Mr. Dalton said. "I investigated the possibility of restoring the structure but the cost was prohibitive. Cheaper to build new."
Surprised the man had done his homework, Renée struggled to respond. She suspected the bitter temps had caused the neurons in her brain to misfire, impeding her ability to speak. Pete nudged her shoulder. Neither cop would depart until she did. Time to end the stand-off. But how? A blast of wind seared her chaffed face and caused her teeth to clatter.
"Why don't we discuss this over dinner," Mr. Dalton suggested.
There were worse things than sharing a meal with a citified cowboy--like becoming a human Popsicle. "The Railway Diner is a few blocks over. Let's meet there."
Ignoring her brother's we'll-talk-later-look, she shuffled on numb feet to her car. Once inside the wagon, she cranked the engine and blasted the heat, which made her nose drip like a faucet. While Rich detained Mr. Dalton--no doubt to impart a watch-yourself-around-the-woman lecture--she pressed her hands against the air vents until her knuckles thawed enough that she was able to bend her fingers and grasp the steering wheel.
Although she appreciated her brother's concern, she trusted her instincts. Reading between the lines and deciphering truth from lies was a necessary skill in her line of work. A gut feeling insisted that beneath the cowboy persona, the man meant her no ill will or harm.
He may be decent, but he's not a pushover.
Renée feared she'd need a miracle to persuade him to hold off on his plans for the building.
Tis the season for miracles.
Maybe Duke Dalton would turn out to be Renée's Christmas miracle.
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