“Save me a waltz.”

Luke’s voice was suddenly deeper, and tension vibrated between them.

His words reminded Rebecca of the last time they’d waltzed together and how it felt to be held in his arms.

The need to leave her chair, to take the short two steps separating them, run her hands over the bare muscles of his chest and arms and lift her mouth to his was nearly overwhelming. The force of emotions he raised in her was disconcerting. She decided to obey the alarm bells that were screaming caution in her brain.

“I will—if you’re there.” Which was as noncommittal as she could be without refusing him outright. She stood. “And since it sounds as if it’s going to be a long day tomorrow, I think I’ll try to get some sleep.” She turned toward the screen door, hesitating to say good-night, before she pulled open the door.

“Good night.” His voice was hushed, quieter than usual, but it still sent shivers up her spine.

Dear Reader,

Well, it’s that time of year again—and if those beautiful buds of April are any indication, you’re in the mood for love! And what better way to sustain that mood than with our latest six Special Edition novels? We open the month with the latest installment of Sherryl Woods’s MILLION DOLLAR DESTINIES series, Priceless. When a pediatric oncologist who deals with life and death on a daily basis meets a sick child’s football hero, she thinks said hero can make the little boy’s dreams come true. But little does she know that he can make hers a reality, as well! Don’t miss this compelling story….

MERLYN COUNTY MIDWIVES continues with Maureen Child’s Forever…Again, in which a man who doesn’t believe in second chances has a change of mind—not to mention heart—when he meets the beautiful new public relations guru at the midwifery clinic. In Cattleman’s Heart by Lois Faye Dyer, a businesswoman assigned to help a struggling rancher finds that business is the last thing on her mind when she sees the shirtless cowboy meandering toward her! And Susan Mallery’s popular DESERT ROGUES are back! In The Sheik & the Princess in Waiting, a woman learns that the man she loved in college has two secrets: 1) he’s a prince; and 2) they’re married! Next, can a pregnant earthy vegetarian chef find happiness with town’s resident playboy, an admitted carnivore…and father of her child? Find out in The Best of Both Worlds by Elissa Ambrose. And in Vivienne Wallington’s In Her Husband’s Image, a widow confronted with her late husband’s twin brother is forced to decide, as she looks in the eyes of her little boy, if some secrets are worth keeping.

So enjoy the beginnings of spring, and all six of these wonderful books! And don’t forget to come back next month for six new compelling reads from Silhouette Special Edition.

Happy reading!

Gail Chasan

Senior Editor

Cattleman’s Heart
Lois Faye Dyer

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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LOIS FAYE DYER

lives on Washington State’s beautiful Puget Sound with her husband, their yellow Lab, Maggie Mae, and two eccentric cats. She loves to hear from readers and you can write to her c/o Paperbacks Plus, 1618 Bay Street, Port Orchard, WA 98366.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter One

“I ’m definitely not in California anymore.”

Rebecca Parrish Wallingford turned in a slow circle, her gaze sweeping the ranch yard. She braced herself against the open door of the rental car and took in the buildings set in a neat half circle around the dusty square. Weather and time had long since stripped the paint from the two-storied ranch house until it was a uniform dark gray. A tall, gnarled maple shaded the left side of the house, its leafy branches brushing against gray wood, the second story’s sashed windows and the roof of the deep porch that edged the front of the house. A matching maple sheltered the other side of the house, set back and slightly nearer the far end of the structure.

The building was silent, slumbering beneath the hot June sun. If people were within, Rebecca could neither see nor hear them.

She glanced past the house to the sprawling outbuildings on her left. New lumber and shingles created a patchwork of pale color against the weathered walls and roof of the large barn while the attached corral was constructed entirely of raw, unpainted wood. Three dusty pickup trucks stood outside a long shed just beyond the corral. The sound of hammers thudding against nails and the high-pitched scream of a saw slicing through wood broke the afternoon quiet.

A man stepped from the dim interior of the shed into the hot sunlight and strode toward the trucks.

He glanced toward the house, saw Rebecca and abruptly changed direction to angle away from the back of a truck loaded with lumber, and move toward her.

He was shirtless, a tool-hung carpenter’s belt riding low on his hips, its weight dragging the waistband of faded denim jeans below his navel. A straw cowboy hat shaded his face, leather gloves on his hands. Rebecca stared, riveted by the slow saunter of long legs, the gleam of hot sunlight on sleek brown shoulders, the supple flex and shift of muscles as he moved.

“Afternoon, ma’am.” He halted a few feet away. “Something I can do for you? Are you lost?”

His voice was a deep drawl. She felt the impact of his gaze when it met hers as if he’d reached out and touched her.

Shivers feathered up Rebecca’s spine and heat grew, easing its way through her body. Her black linen suit and white cotton shell, chosen for traveling in the summer heat, felt suddenly much too warm. Shocked by her reaction, she took a mental step back and desperately sought detachment.

Sweat dewed the angles and hollows of his face, dampening the ends of his hair where it curled, a shade too long, behind his ears and at his nape. Thick eyebrows, the same deep brown as his hair, arched over dark gold eyes, the sharply defined cheekbones—fit companions to a blade of a nose that was slightly crooked. Rebecca wondered fleetingly if he’d broken it sometime in the past. His wasn’t a classically handsome face but there was something so essentially male about him that Rebecca felt threatened by the raw power he exuded. At five feet eight inches tall, she rarely felt intimidated by males, but this man made her vividly aware that she was smaller boned and distinctly feminine.

Her reaction set alarm bells jangling inside her head.

And the way he was looking at her, his golden eyes hooded, hot with more than the afternoon heat, only made the alarms ring louder.

Other men had looked at her and she’d known they wanted her. She’d never felt the slightest physical reaction. Her heart hadn’t pounded harder. Her skin hadn’t heated. That this man could arouse a reaction with only a look was irritating beyond words.

“I hope I’m not lost. I’m looking for Jackson Rand, owner of the Rand Ranch.”

His gaze sharpened, a faint frown creasing his forehead.

“I’m Jackson Rand.”

Oh no. Rebecca stiffened. Her day had swiftly gone from bad to worse.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Rand.” She forced herself to step forward and extend her hand, steeling herself. His much bigger hand engulfed hers, his fingers and palm callused and hard against hers for a brief moment before he released her. “I’m Rebecca Wallingford with Bay Area Investments—I believe you’re expecting me.”

If Rebecca had stiffened, Jackson Rand went rigid. His gaze narrowed, swiftly flicking over Rebecca from head to toe in a swift searing assessment.

“No, I’m expecting a man named Walter Andersen.”

“Walter had a minor heart attack yesterday and I’ve been assigned to take his place. I trust I haven’t arrived at an inconvenient time?”

He stared at her for a long moment without speaking, his gaze unreadable.

“No,” he said finally. “The timing isn’t inconvenient, but I wasn’t expecting a woman.” He gestured toward the shed and barns. “We’re updating the outbuildings but the house hasn’t been touched and there’s no room for a woman.”

“I’m sure the accommodations you planned for Mr. Andersen will be perfectly fine for me, Mr. Rand. As long as I have a bed, somewhere to shower, brew a pot of tea and plug in my laptop, I’ll be perfectly comfortable.”

“I doubt that, lady. The house has four bedrooms and, at the moment, three of them are occupied by me and my crew. You’ll be the only woman in a house full of men.”

Rebecca schooled her face not to reflect her instant dismay. She’d been told that the owner of Rand Ranch would provide housing, but sharing that housing with a crew of men wasn’t a possibility she’d considered. Her mind raced, considering the problem.

“Did you assign a room to Mr. Andersen or was he going to share?”

“He would have had a room to himself,” Jackson said shortly.

“Then I’m afraid I don’t see the problem, Mr. Rand.”

“You don’t? Then let me lay it out for you. Moving a woman into a house with four men for several months is asking for trouble. Lots of trouble. And I’m too damn busy to deal with it.”

Rebecca struggled to ignore the quick rise of anger at his blunt comment. “I’m a professional, Mr. Rand. I often have to work with men. I’ve never had a problem before and I don’t expect to have one here.”

“Expect to.” His frown deepened. “Hank is too old to chase you, but he flat doesn’t like women and he’s not going to want you around. Mick and Gib are more likely to hit on you and fight over whoever wins.”

“I’m an engaged woman, Mr. Rand,” Rebecca said evenly, wondering just what she was getting into. I can always drive into Colson and look for a room if this situation becomes impossible. But Colson was a thirty-mile drive each way, which was the reason Jackson Rand had agreed to house Walter Andersen in the first place. “And, therefore, off-limits. But if your employees don’t respect my position, then I can deal with the problem.”

His expression didn’t change, but Rebecca didn’t miss the irritation that gleamed in Jackson Rand’s eyes.

“I doubt it, but I’ll put a lock on your door.”

She met his barely concealed frustration with a cool glance and lift of an eyebrow. “I appreciate that. Now, if you would show me where I’ll be staying, Mr. Rand. I’ve been traveling since 5:00 a.m. It’s been a long day.”

For the space of a heartbeat, Jackson didn’t move, his gaze unreadable. Then he seemed to reach a decision, tugged his hat lower over his forehead and nodded toward her car.

“Is your luggage in the trunk?”

“Yes.”

He held out his hand. Rebecca dropped the car keys into his palm, and he strode past her to the back of the car.

Rebecca drew a deep breath and bent, stretching across the interior of the car to reach for her purse and laptop on the passenger seat. Leather bags in hand, she closed the car door and turned, halting in midmovement when she nearly bumped into Jackson.

Startled, she took a quick step back, brought up short when her back met the warm metal of the car.

Jackson didn’t comment. He merely nodded toward the house, a suitcase in each hand and one tucked beneath his arm.

“After you.”

Vividly aware of the man walking behind her and the ease with which he carried her heavy bags, Rebecca moved past him. A split-rail fence enclosed the expanse of cropped grass surrounding the house and a weathered gate was set into the rails to access the stone path leading to the porch steps.

The metal latch on the old gate was shiny and new, opening easily beneath her hand. She stepped through onto the stone path and paused, thinking to close the gate behind Jackson, but he gave it a nudge with his boot and the old gate swung silently closed on new, well-oiled hinges.

Rebecca moved up the path ahead of him. Accustomed to the micromaintained, upscale homes in her native San Francisco, Rebecca was fascinated by the old house. Upon closer inspection, she realized that one of the three wide, shallow porch steps was new wood, obviously recently installed. The older boards on the porch floor creaked softly beneath her feet, Jackson’s boots ringing hollowly as he followed, then reached around her to pull open the screen door.

The room beyond was a square entry hallway with scarred wooden floors that gave onto a stairway to the right, an open doorway to a living room on the left, and a hallway ahead that clearly led to the back of the first floor.

What she could see of the old house reminded Rebecca of a friend’s house undergoing restoration in Daly City, one of the older suburbs of San Francisco.

“The bedrooms are upstairs.”

Jackson’s deep drawl startled Rebecca, and she turned to follow him upstairs, trailing her hand over the newel post and the oak banister, worn smooth and satiny.

Five doors stood open along the hallway, a worn runner patterned in faded pink cabbage roses filling its length.

Jackson strode down the hall ahead of her.

“This is the bathroom. There’s only one.” He barely paused as he passed the door.

Rebecca caught a quick impression of black-and-white tiles, a pedestal sink and a huge claw-foot white bathtub as she inhaled a heady mix of soap and male aftershave.

“You can use this bedroom.” He disappeared through a door at the far end of the hall.

Rebecca paused on the threshold, swiftly scanning the room. Jackson deposited her bags at the foot of a simple, white-painted iron bedstead. An oak nightstand with a lamp centered atop its otherwise bare surface was next to the bed, and an old but solid oak dresser stood against the far wall, across from the open doors of a small closet where a cluster of empty wire hangers hung on the wooden rod. A small, square table was placed beneath the window; a straight-backed wooden chair next to it didn’t match the table but looked sturdy enough.

No pictures hung on the bare walls, no curtains draped the tall, sashed window. The room held only the bare essentials but it was scrupulously clean.

“It’s not fancy.”

Rebecca glanced quickly at Jackson and found him watching her, arms folded across his chest.

“It’s fine,” she assured him, smiling slightly at his look of disbelief. “Believe me, I’ve stayed in much worse places. This is perfectly okay.”

“If you say so.”

He looked unconvinced, but shrugged and moved toward the door. He paused on the threshold, looking back at her.

“Make yourself at home. I’ll be working down at the barn until six or so, but this evening we can go over the books.”

“That sounds good,” Rebecca agreed.

He nodded abruptly, turned on his heel and left.

Rebecca stood motionless, listening to the sound of his boots against the bare oak floors as he descended the stairs and crossed the hallway, then the squeak and slam of the screen door as he left the house.

“Well.” She dropped onto the edge of the bed, toed off her shoes and stared blankly at the bare wall.

She wasn’t sure what she’d expected from the owner of the Rand Ranch, but she definitely hadn’t anticipated a man like Jackson Rand.

She’d worked for her mother’s venture capital firm for the last four years, ever since she graduated from college. She’d often been assigned on-site work with various firms, requiring her to travel to the area and remain there for several weeks. This was different. When her mother, Kathleen, the head of Bay Area Investments, had asked her to fill in for a co-worker stricken with a sudden illness, she’d readily agreed. She wasn’t elated to learn that the assignment called for a stay of two months, perhaps longer, on a ranch in eastern Montana, and she was puzzled by her mother’s decision to loan hundreds of thousands of dollars to a rancher. Kathleen’s usual investments were in high-profile business ventures and her specialty was San Francisco real estate. When she’d questioned her mother, Kathleen’s response that the investment was well-researched and wise had left Rebecca debating her mother’s decision-making for the first time.

More important than the puzzle of why her mother had agreed to lend money to Jackson Rand, however, was her reaction to the rancher.

Rebecca recognized the signs of physical attraction—the heat that moved through her veins when he was near, the increased pace of her heartbeat. She’d felt those same things when she’d had a crush at seventeen. The crush had ended badly and the experience had reinforced the bitter lessons hammered home by her stepfather over the years. Harold Wallingford had never let her forget that she was illegitimate, the product of a passionate liaison by her mother before she married him. Harold’s too frequent comments and her unfortunate experience at seventeen had taught Rebecca a valuable lesson—that common sense went out the window when hormones took over. She’d avoided any recurrence of the madness of attraction ever since and she’d been amazingly lucky. She’d even chosen her fiancé, Steven, based on common interests and goals. No passion raged between them, and Rebecca reminded herself that she was glad his kisses generated only mild pleasure with no trace of out-of-control emotions.

She glanced down at her hand and smoothed a fingertip over the diamond solitaire. There was no reason to think that her status as an engaged woman wouldn’t hold the men at the Rand Ranch at arm’s length. Especially Jackson Rand. Because she was determined to control any impulses from her own wildly attracted hormones. Discipline and commitment.

That decided, Rebecca stood, stripping off her black linen suit jacket. She unzipped the pencil-straight matching skirt and padded on stockinged feet to the closet. The wire hangers weren’t the best for the expensive linen, but Rebecca had long since learned to make do while traveling. She pulled the white cotton, short-sleeved shell off over her head and dropped it on the bed before swinging one of the suitcases atop the blanket-covered sheets.

There was no spread on the bed, but the corners of the blankets and sheets were folded and tucked with military preciseness. Rebecca wondered if Jackson had done a stint in the army. He’d certainly learned neatness somewhere. The small glimpses she’d caught of the house plus the appearance of her bedroom all testified that Jackson Rand was a man with a tendency toward sparse, clean, tidy surroundings.

She hoped he was as careful about his financial dealings. It would make her job over the next few months much easier. Clients who had to be reminded to be fiscally cautious were often difficult clients, and she suspected that handling Jackson Rand in any aspect wouldn’t be an easy task.

Accustomed to traveling light, Rebecca unpacked with quick efficiency and tucked her empty suitcases into the back of the small closet. Then she pulled on a green silk tank top and tucked it into the waistband of a gathered cotton skirt, slid her feet into leather sandals, picked up a box of English Breakfast tea bags from the blanket-covered bed and headed back downstairs.

She felt a bit as if she were intruding but, as Jackson’s home would also be her home for the next few months, she ignored the concern and walked down the hall into the kitchen.

The stripped-down tone of the rest of the house was evident in the kitchen, also, but the wide window over the sink and the back door’s square glass let in cheery sunlight. There was something very welcoming and warm about the knotty-pine cupboards with their plain white counters. A square maple table and chairs took up one corner of the room and a white stove and refrigerator faced each other at opposite ends of the cabinets.

The house was nothing like the Knob Hill mansion she’d grown up in, nor the apartment she’d bought after college and where she now lived. The upscale rooms on the twentieth floor of a posh building on Van Ness Avenue, a bustling downtown location, were a planet removed from these. But the differences only made the house more interesting.

“Nothing fancy, but very functional,” Rebecca murmured, her gaze slowly surveying the kitchen. A battered copper teakettle sat on a back burner of the stove. “Ah,” she said with satisfaction.

It took only moments to fill the kettle with cold tap water and set it on the stove to heat. Rebecca opened cupboard doors until she found several mugs. The one she took down had a Montana State Fair and Rodeo emblem on the side. None of the cupboards held good china, although there was a collection of mismatched dishes, glasses, cups and bowls.

While she waited for the kettle to boil, she glanced at the clock and realized that it was nearly five o’clock.

Rebecca was hungry. She’d swallowed less than half of the limp chicken and dry rice served as lunch on the plane. Then she’d downed a bottle of water and a candy bar while waiting for her rental car to be processed at the airport, but except for two tall take-out coffees she drank on the drive from Billings to Colson and the bagel she’d eaten at her 6:00 a.m. meeting before leaving for the airport in San Francisco, that was the sum total of her food intake for the day.

She was beyond hungry. She was starved.

The teakettle whistled, startling her and she quickly poured boiling water into her mug.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Rebecca jumped and spun to look at the door. A man stood just outside the screen door in the utility room. He yanked open the door and stepped into the kitchen, and she got a clearer view of him. He wasn’t a tall man; in fact, he was probably an inch or so shorter than her own five feet eight, but his legs were bowed and his back slightly bent, making it difficult to know how tall he might have been when young. His dusty jeans and snap-front western shirt were faded blue and worn white in places, his brown cowboy boots smeared with mud. At least, Rebecca assumed it was mud. She wasn’t sure. A shock of white hair was startlingly pale against the dark, weathered tan of his lined face, and bright blue eyes watched her suspiciously.

“Well?” he demanded.

Rebecca realized that she’d been staring, speechless, at him and hadn’t answered his question.

“I’m just brewing a mug of tea,” she offered. He didn’t relax, his gaze just as suspicious. “I’m the accountant from Bay Area Investments.”

The blue gaze sharpened. “I thought the accountant was a man.”

“He was. Is. He was stricken with a sudden illness, and the company sent me to take his place.”

“Humph,” the old man snorted. “That’s ridiculous. We can’t have a woman on the place.”

“So Mr. Rand said,” Rebecca said dryly, wondering if every man on Rand Ranch would dislike her on sight. “I’m guessing that you must be Hank?”

“That’s right. How’d you know?”

“Mr. Rand mentioned that one of the four men staying here didn’t care for women.”

“That’s right. I don’t. Women are nothin’ but trouble.”

“I promise I’ll do my best not to cause any trouble,” Rebecca assured him gravely.

“Hah. Promise all you want, won’t make any difference. Trouble follows women, regardless of what they say.”

Rebecca could see that the conversation wasn’t getting anywhere.

“I was just making a mug of tea, Mr., um, Hank. Would you like one?”

He gave her a withering glare. “No. Don’t drink tea. That’s a woman’s drink, ’cept for iced tea loaded with sugar in the summertime.”

“Oh.” Rebecca bit the inside of her lip to keep from grinning. Hank reminded her of elderly Mr. Althorpe, her neighbor at her condo in San Francisco. He proclaimed long and loud that he hated women, but he was a soft touch for the double-chocolate brownies she brought him from the bakery on the next block. She wondered briefly if the bakery would give her the recipe so she could try chocolate bribery on Hank.

“Men drink coffee, beer or whiskey,” the old man proclaimed, stomping to the sink. He scrubbed his hands and face, drying them on the towel hung on a rack inside the lower cabinet door.

“Would you like me to make you coffee, then?”

“No.” He shot her a scathing glance. “Women never make it strong enough.”

“Ah, I see.” She collected her tea, tossed the tea bag in the trash, stirred in sugar and retreated to the relative safety of the table.

“If you’re gonna be livin’ here, you’re gonna have to help with chores,” Hank warned.

“Certainly. Is there a schedule?”

“Of sorts. I do most of the cookin’ and everybody else helps out with cleanin’ up in the kitchen and the rest of the house.”

Rebecca didn’t miss the pointed look Hank gave her. Clearly, the kitchen was Hank’s territory.

“Can I help you with dinner tonight?” she offered, expecting him to refuse. To her surprise, he didn’t.

“Since I’m runnin’ late tonight, I suppose you can,” he agreed grumpily.

“What can I do?” She stood.

“You can get five good-sized baking potatoes from the sack in the basement. The door to the cellar is on the back porch.”

“Right.” Rebecca stepped into the utility room. A washer and dryer took up half of one wall, the other half lined with coat hooks and a collection of jackets. Below them, several pairs of rubber or leather boots stood. The far wall had more hooks for jackets and the door to the back step, standing open with the screen door outside closed. To her left, cabinets lined the wall on each side of a door. She pulled open the door, flicked on the switch and carefully descended steep stairs to the cool, concrete-walled basement. Rough plank shelves lined the walls, filled with enough canned goods to feed an army. She found the gunny sack of potatoes leaning against the wall. Juggling an armful, she left the basement for the kitchen and crossed to the sink. Hank shot her a glance when she tumbled the pile into the sink and began to wash them. Without commenting, she scrubbed them clean, deftly stabbed each three times with a knife from the block atop the counter and slipped them into the oven, setting the temperature at four hundred.

“Potatoes are in,” she told Hank. “What else can I do?”

When Jackson opened the back door and stepped into the utility room off the kitchen, it was nearly six-thirty. He was hot, dirty and tired. And he still hadn’t decided what he was going to do about Rebecca Wallingford.

He saw her through the screen door to the kitchen the minute he stepped into the utility room. She was standing with her back to him, stirring something in a pan on the stove. Gone was the sophisticated black business suit and heels, replaced by a gathered white skirt that cinched in at her narrow waist and left the smooth, tanned length of legs bare from above her knees. The old radio on the shelf by the back door was tuned to a rock-and-roll station, and her ebony ponytail swung back and forth, brushing her nape as she swayed to the music.

Emotions, basic and primitive, stirred in Jackson. He easily recognized the surge of lust in the mix. Rebecca Wallingford was a beautiful woman; he’d have to be a eunuch not to respond to her. The other reactions were more difficult to analyze. He suspected that it had something to do with coming in from work and finding a beautiful woman cooking dinner in his kitchen. The inferences to hearth and home and a woman of his own were obvious.

Oh, no. I’m not going there.

He stepped inside the kitchen and turned down the volume on the radio. Rebecca spun around, her hand flying to her heart.

“Oh, it’s you. You startled me.”

“Sorry.” For a long moment, he couldn’t look away from wide emerald eyes fringed with thick black lashes. She had a mouth that conjured up erotic fantasies, and the green tank top clung to full breasts that the suit jacket she’d worn earlier had concealed. He realized that he was staring and yanked his gaze away from her chest to glance past her at the stove. “Where’s Hank?”

“He went to the basement to find canned peaches for dessert.”

Behind Jackson, the sound of male voices and laughter grew louder. The back-room door slapped shut, then the inner screen door opened and two men stepped into the kitchen. They halted abruptly just inside the door and stared at Rebecca with identical expressions of surprise and interest.

“Whoa. Who’s this?”

The taller of the two grinned at her, his blue eyes alive with interest on an open, friendly face beneath close-cropped blond hair. The other man was shorter, with dark brown hair and a handsome face. Rebecca instinctively liked the taller man and withheld judgment on the handsome one.

She glanced at Jackson and found him watching her reaction, eyes narrowed.

“This is the accountant. She’ll be staying here for the next couple of months or so. Rebecca Wallingford,” he nodded at the blond man, “this is Gib Thompson…”

“Hello.” The lanky young man grinned and nodded a greeting.

“…and Mick Haworth.”

“Pleased to meet you.” An engaging smile wreathed Mick’s handsome face.

“It’s nice to meet you, too.”

“Where are you from, Rebecca?” Gib asked.

“San Francisco.”

“Yeah? Are you…”

“Out of the way.” Hank’s testy voice interrupted them. He elbowed his way past Mick and Gib and shot them a glare. “If you two want to eat tonight, you’d better get washed up. I ain’t waitin’ dinner on you while you stand here jawin’ with Rebecca.”

The two shot Rebecca apologetic looks and left the room. Their boots sounded on the stairs, the din of their friendly arguing floating behind them down the stairway.

“You, too, boss.”

Jackson left the kitchen without comment. The radio played an old Stones tune as his boots sounded on the stair treads.

By the time Jackson and the other two came back downstairs, faces, hands and arms washed free of dust and grime, Rebecca was folding napkins and tucking them under silverware. The maple table was set with mismatched china, a crockery bowl filled with salad greens and red tomatoes making a bright spot of color against the wooden tabletop. Hank forked steaks onto a platter and set it on the table.

“Well, come on, set down and eat before everything gets cold.”

Chairs scraped against the wooden floor, Mick and Gib jostling each other to pull out Rebecca’s chair. Jackson gave them a steely glare and they retreated to their own seats. Rebecca calmly seated herself and picked up her napkin.

For a few moments, the silence was punctuated only by requests to pass food and the scrape of spoons and forks against bowls and plates.

The quiet was broken by Gib.

“So, Rebecca, you’re an accountant? In San Francisco?”

“Yes.” She picked up her water glass and sipped. “I work for an investment firm downtown.”

“And you do this often?” Mick asked.

Rebecca glanced up. “Do I do what often?”

“Travel to a strange place and live with strangers?”

“I travel a lot,” she conceded. “But I usually stay in a hotel room by myself.”

“And that doesn’t bother you, traveling all the time?” Gib asked, his voice curious.

“No, not at all. I like visiting new places, meeting new people.”

“And you don’t miss being at home?”

Rebecca had a quick mental image of her San Francisco apartment with its few pieces of furniture and the unpacked boxes still shoved into closets after three years. Her busy traveling life left little time to build a nest. “I miss San Francisco,” she admitted. “I love the city. But I rarely get homesick when I’m away. I’m usually too busy working and exploring a new city.”

“So most of your jobs are in the city?” Mick asked, ignoring his half-eaten steak to stare at her.

“Until now, all of my clients have been located in medium to large cities. But that doesn’t mean that our firm never has clients in smaller towns.”

“But you’ve never worked in a small town,” Jackson interjected.

“No,” Rebecca admitted. She lifted an eyebrow, trying to keep annoyance from her voice. “Are you concerned about my ability to deal with a rural-based business rather than an urban corporation?”

“No.” He shook his head. “I’m concerned with your ability to put up with the isolation of a ranch after living in the city.”

“I have a car,” she pointed out. “And Colson isn’t that far away.”

“True. But Colson isn’t San Francisco, not even close. You’re a long way from gourmet restaurants, Starbucks coffee and the opera.”

“I don’t go to the opera.”

He shrugged. “Then, the ballet. Whatever it is that you like to do in the city, you’re not likely to find here.”

“Maybe not.” She narrowed her eyes, determined to squelch the urge to lose her temper. “But I’m sure there are other things unique to the area and unavailable in the city that I’ll find here.”

He looked unconvinced. “I’m sure there are, but I doubt you’ll like any of them.”

Rebecca forced a small smile. “I have no doubt I’ll find them fascinating. In any event, I won’t be here forever. Two or three months is longer than my usual assignments but the time will pass quickly enough.”

“You don’t usually stay at a company for three months? Why so long this time?”

His question seemed casual, but Rebecca didn’t miss the intensity with which he watched her.

“I don’t know.” She was suddenly aware that everyone at the table had stopped eating, their attention wholly focused on her. She chose her words carefully. “As far as I know, this is the first time Bay Area Investments has made a loan to a rancher. Perhaps the company is being cautious because this is a trial project in a new area.”

“Maybe.” Jackson was unconvinced. Gut instinct told him that she was holding something back. She sipped water, and her gaze met his without evasion over the rim of the glass. He didn’t think she was lying, but doubted she was telling him everything she knew.

Rebecca glanced around the table. “This steak is excellent,” she said politely, changing the subject without worrying about subtlety. “Is it from beef raised here on the ranch?”

Hank hooted. Jackson’s mouth twisted with wry humor.

“I wish I could say yes. The few cattle left on the place when I took over were wild and tough as raw-hide.” He gestured at the steak on her plate. “This came from a neighbor. I traded him a side of beef for some repair work I did on his barn roof.”

“So you don’t raise beef? I thought I read in the report that you raised cattle?”

“I raise purebred bulls for breeding. A bull-breeding operation can be very profitable, if done right, but the start-up costs are prohibitive because of the high price of investing in good stock.”

“Ah. I see.” Rebecca sipped her ice water and thought about his words. “So the initial investment is high, but the return is equally high?”

“It can be. If you’re lucky. And careful.”

“I understand that caution is important to any business, but how is being lucky important for profit in breeding bulls?”

“Because there are a hundred problems that can keep a bull from being able to reproduce—if the owner is unlucky enough to have a sick bull, the profit is zero.”

“I see.” Jackson’s comments brought home to Rebecca the inherent risk of investing in a business based on living animals. Once again, she wondered why her mother had gambled company money on the Rand Ranch.

“And a purebred bull can be downright touchy about procreatin’,” Hank interjected. “No matter what the BSE report says, he might have problems.”

“What’s a BSE report?” Rebecca inquired, curious.

“It stands for Breeding Soundness Examination and it’s an exam by a vet to verify that the animal is healthy,” Jackson explained.

“Oh.” Rebecca wasn’t sure just how much information she wanted him to explain to her about the breeding problems of bulls.

Jackson pushed back his chair and stood, gathering up his plate and utensils.

“When you’re done eating, I’ll show you the computer and the books.”

“I’m finished.” She stood, too, and carried her plate and utensils to the sink.

“It’s Gib and Mick’s night to wash the dishes.” Jackson took them from her. “You helped cook dinner, they’ll clean.”

“All right.” Not about to argue, Rebecca tucked a strand of hair that had escaped from her ponytail holder back behind her ear. “If you’ll show me where the office is, I’ll be glad to get acquainted with the computer and your bookkeeping system.”

“It’s down the hall, first door on the left.”

He stood back, waiting for her to precede him, and Rebecca nodded to the others and left the room.

The office was tucked between the kitchen and the stairway; Jackson pushed the door open and stood back to let Rebecca enter. Twice the size of her bedroom, the office had two tall sashed windows without curtains, white-painted walls, an old-fashioned oak desk and a bulky leather-covered sofa and chair. She took several steps into the room and paused, diverted by the large map that took up much of the wall behind the desk. A rough wood frame edged the glass that covered the yellowed hand-drawn map. The county was divided into ranches, heavy black lines marking the boundaries, while Colson and other towns were inked in with a lighter hand and set apart with a lopsided star.

The door clicked shut and Jackson halted beside her, his gaze following hers to the map.

“I think old Eli’s grandfather drew that,” he commented. “He was a surveyor for the U.S. government before he came west and homesteaded this place.”

“Fascinating,” Rebecca murmured. “He would have been your great-great-grandfather?”

“Something like that.” Jackson shrugged. “Eli was my great-uncle, but I’m not sure exactly how the family tree shakes out.”

“Did you grow up here?” Her gaze found his name printed in neat black ink beneath the faded letters spelling out “Eli Kuhlman.” The expanse of land that surrounded the names appeared enormous.

“Hell, no,” Jackson said shortly. “I never knew about Eli or this ranch until I got a letter from an attorney telling me that he’d died and left it to me.”

“Oh.” She wanted to ask him why he hadn’t known that he had a great-uncle who owned an enormous property. She glanced sideways at him. His attention was focused on the big map, his eyes narrowed, the lines of his face taut and forbidding. Despite her curiosity, caution kept her from questioning him further.

His gaze left the map and met hers for a brief second before he looked away.

“The computer is new,” he said abruptly, gesturing toward the desk where several unopened boxes were stacked on the floor, the top one even with the desktop. “I haven’t unpacked it yet.”

He walked to the desk and Rebecca followed, noting that the brand name stamped on the boxes was a computer she particularly favored. Jackson pulled out the old-fashioned desk chair, the oiled casters rolling quietly over the scarred wooden floor.

“Have a seat.”

It was more an order than a polite invitation but Rebecca didn’t comment. Instead, she seated herself in the worn, brown leather chair while Jackson snagged a straight-backed oaken chair and dragged it nearer the desk. His scent surrounded her, an indefinable mix of soap and male. Awareness shivered up her spine, lifting the fine hairs at her nape.

“These are the ledgers for the last thirty years.” Jackson reached across the desk and picked up a stack of books, setting them squarely on the bare oak desktop in front of Rebecca. The hardcover green ledgers, worn from use and faded with age, had entries in a spidery, often illegible hand.

For the next hour, Jackson explained the handwritten bookkeeping system that the previous owner, Eli Kuhlman, had used. Reading the notes soon had Rebecca’s eyes aching from strain.

The greatest strain, however, came from being in such close proximity to Jackson. He straddled the chair, his forearms crossed along the square wooden back. On one occasion, he stood and leaned over her at the desk, pointing out and explaining an item in a ledger, his arm twice brushing against hers. Waiting for him to touch her again had her nerves strung taut until she wanted to scream with tension.

By the time Jackson left to make a last check of the barns and she climbed the stairs to bed, her nerves were jangling.

Chapter Two

J ackson stacked his hands beneath his head and stared up at the ceiling. Outside the bedroom window, one of the maples’ far-reaching branches scratched gently against the glass pane. The three-quarter moon threw leaf-shaped shadows across the white ceiling, the dark shapes shifting and changing with the faint breeze.

He still didn’t know what he was going to do about Rebecca Wallingford.

She represented a complication that he didn’t have time to deal with. He was up to his neck in work, putting in fourteen-hour days to finish upgrading the ranch’s buildings and fences. He hadn’t been too wild about the idea of having a representative of the investment company underfoot, but the unexpected offer of financing from the San Francisco firm had arrived after he’d been turned down by every bank within a five-hundred-mile radius of Colson. Eli Kuhlman had left him land worth millions but no cash assets, and the fences, buildings and machinery were all desperately in need of repair. He’d reached the point where he would have done anything short of a criminal act to get the money to develop the ranch. When he was told that the accountant would be a fifty-three-year-old man named Walter Andersen, he’d resigned himself to squeezing one more boarder into the house for a few months. He’d hoped that Walter could at least play a decent game of poker.

Then Rebecca arrived. One look at her green eyes and curvy body had his temperature rising.

“Hell,” he muttered. Two or three long months. Maybe it was a good thing he had enough work to keep him busy twenty-four hours a day, if needed. Because there was no way he was acting on his instinct to ignore the engagement ring on her finger and pursue her. He had a hard-and-fast rule—never date anyone you work with—and he never broke it. Never. He’d been down that road and lived to regret it. He wasn’t going there again.

Rebecca had difficulty falling asleep. Accustomed as she was to the sounds of traffic and the occasional siren from the street below her sixth-story apartment windows in downtown San Francisco, the complete silence surrounding the ranch house was unsettling. But if it was strangely quiet outside, inside, Rebecca’s thoughts were uncharacteristically chaotic.

What was she going to do about the impact Jackson Rand had on her senses? Despite her earlier confidence that she could control her body’s reaction to the rancher, she hadn’t been able to shut down her response to him in the office. Would she become more adept at ignoring him with time? Or less so?

Thank goodness I never have to worry about any of this with Steven, she thought. Life with Steven would be comfortable and placid, with no disturbing wakes and whitecaps, no turbulent waters to threaten the calm comfort of their life together.

She woke the next morning to the sound of water running in the bathroom next door and the muted sounds of men’s voices, followed by the thud of boots on stair treads. Disoriented, she lay still, staring at the ceiling for a moment before she remembered where she was.

She turned her head and squinted at her small alarm clock on the night table.

Five o’clock? Her body was still on San Francisco Pacific time, where it was only 3:00 a.m. She groaned aloud and rolled over, pulling the sheet and blanket over her head.

The maneuver didn’t help. Fifteen minutes later, she shoved the covers back and glared at the clock. The luminous dial glowed silently back at her.

It’s no use. She admitted finally and tossed back the covers. Groping for her ankle-length robe at the end of the bed, she pulled it on over her pajamas, shoved her feet into matching white terry-cloth mules and took her toiletry bag from the top of the dresser. If she couldn’t sleep, she thought, she may as well get up, get dressed and get to work.

The hall was silent when she stepped out of her bedroom. In the vacant bathroom, damp towels hung over the racks, droplets of water dotted the sink and the faint scent of mint toothpaste hung in the warm air.

She splashed her face, brushed her teeth, ran a brush through her hair and caught it up into a high ponytail, then left the bathroom.

She moved quietly down the stairs, drawn by the irresistible smell of brewed coffee, and paused to listen intently at the bottom of the steps. The house was quiet. Breathing a sigh of relief that she had the house to herself, she walked down the hall and was two steps into the kitchen before she halted abruptly. Jackson was seated at the table, a coffee mug cradled in his hand.

“Good morning,” she managed, her voice husky with sleep.

“Good morning.”

His deep drawl curled her toes inside her slippers and made her feel much too vulnerable in her half-awake state.

Caffeine. I need caffeine.

She crossed the room to the counter, took down a mug and filled it, grimacing at the first strong, black sip.

“Something wrong with the coffee?”

She looked up. Jackson’s eyes held amusement.

“Not at all. It’s just that I usually drink tea in the morning and coffee later. Tea isn’t quite as strong as coffee.”

“The only kind of tea I ever drink is iced and loaded with sugar,” he commented.

Rebecca wondered if all Montana men felt this way about tea, since this was exactly what Hank had told her yesterday.

The growl of powerful truck engines sounded outside.

“The lumber delivery must be here.” He stood and pulled out a chair. “Have a seat.”

He walked toward the counter, passing Rebecca as she headed for the table.

“Make yourself at home. If you need anything today or have any questions about the books, I’ll be down at the barn. Or if it can wait, we usually break for lunch around noon.”

He filled a thermal mug with coffee, snapped the lid on and headed for the back door, pausing to look down at her as he passed the table. “You all right?”

“What? Oh, yes.” She yawned. “Really. I’m just not awake yet.” She added when he looked unconvinced.

“If you say so.” He shot her one last look and left the kitchen, the screen door slapping softly shut behind him.

Rebecca groaned and dropped her face into her hands.

I can barely think early in the morning, let alone deal with him.

All that sex appeal should come with a warning label, she thought, getting up to put the kettle on. Coffee just wasn’t a substitute for a strong cup of tea first thing in the morning.

Revived by hot tea and toast, Rebecca headed back up the stairs to shower and dress for the day in a lightweight white skirt, matching top and sandals. By seven o’clock, she was opening the office door, laptop and briefcase in hand.

Much to her surprise, she found the computer unpacked, the heavy monitor, CPU and keyboard sitting on the desktop, while the printer stood on a table placed at a right angle on the far side of the desk.

“Jackson must have unpacked it last night after I went to bed,” she mused.

Touched by his consideration, she took time to plug in her laptop to check her e-mail, then pulled out her cell phone. The phone didn’t respond with a dial tone, however, and she switched to the desktop phone. It took only a few moments to check her phone messages at her apartment, but much longer when she connected to her office voice mail. Her pen flew across the paper as she jotted down names, phone numbers and noted priorities, making a mental note to check her electronic daytimer before e-mailing her secretary with instructions.

Satisfied that her responsibilities in San Francisco were taken care of, she connected the cables and plugged in Jackson’s new desktop computer. Green, red and amber lights blinked and the CPU hummed with a satisfactory, familiar sound. She installed her favorite software and loaded the programs Jackson had bought to address specific ranching issues, including a spreadsheet to track the breeding program. She found the programs surprisingly fascinating.

At ten o’clock, she glanced at her watch and reached for the phone. It was eight o’clock in San Francisco and her mother’s secretary promptly put her through to Kathleen.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Good morning, Rebecca. How was your flight?”

“Fine, except for the truly terrible lunch the airline served in first class. I had rubber chicken again.”

Kathleen’s chuckle warmed the phone line. Rebecca eased back in the swivel wooden desk chair and stretched out her legs, propping her feet on the round metal wastebasket beneath the desk.

“Other than that, how are things going? Are you settled in?”

“Sort of.”

“What do you mean ‘sort of’? Weren’t your rooms ready?”

“Not rooms. Room, Mom, singular. One bedroom, which is fine. The bed is comfortable and that’s the most important thing. The problem is that the house has four bedrooms, one of which is mine. The other three are occupied by the four men who work here on the ranch. And Mr. Rand seems to think that the two youngest ones will fight over dating me while the third man, Hank, who I’m guessing is somewhere in his seventies, hates women and wants me to leave.”

“What about Jackson Rand?” Kathleen asked after a short silence.

Rebecca had a quick mental image of Jackson’s abrupt departure earlier that morning. “I suspect that he strongly wishes that I would leave, too, but he’s stuck with me and he knows it.”

Kathleen’s sigh was clearly audible over the line separating Montana and San Francisco. “Good grief. Why can’t these things ever be simple?”

Rebecca laughed. She was familiar with her mother’s long struggle to survive in a male-dominated business world. “Because of the never ending battle of the sexes.” She quoted her mother’s oft heard comment. “It’s going to be fine, Mom.”

“Are you sure you’re safe living in the house with these men?”

Kathleen’s concern was clear and Rebecca hastened to reassure her. “Absolutely, Mom. I’m not the slightest bit worried about safety. It’s just going to take a while to convince Mr. Rand that I’m not going to encourage either of the younger members of his crew, and that I can win over Hank. By the way,” she added, grinning, “Hank reminds me of Mr. Althorpe.”

“Hmm. Maybe you can bribe him with chocolate.”

“Exactly what I wondered.”

The two women shared a companionable, understanding moment of silence.

“So,” Kathleen said briskly. “What can you tell me about the business?”

Rebecca told her what little she’d learned about Jackson’s operation in a brief, concise report. “I haven’t had a tour of the facility yet, but plan to ask Mr. Rand to show me around tonight after work. Mom,” she paused, wondering how to word her question and opting for bluntness. “I have to confess, I’m baffled as to why you want me to stay here for so long. The operation seems fairly straightforward. I understand that you want to keep a close eye on Bay Area’s money since this is our first investment in this type of business, but I could just as easily have flown in for a few days and then come back in a month or two to check on the status of the business. I’m not sure what it is you expect me to do every day that will keep me busy for a few months.”

Kathleen’s hesitation was so brief that if Rebecca didn’t know her so intimately, she might have missed it.

“I’d rather err on the side of caution, Rebecca. With you on-site, I know we’ll have instant input if there are any problems with Mr. Rand’s business plans going forward. And besides,” she added, “you haven’t had a vacation in four years. It’s about time you drew an assignment with enough downtime to let you relax.”

“I’m not sure that I need a vacation,” Rebecca replied, unconvinced that Kathleen was telling her all of her reasons, but knowing that her mother wouldn’t share the whole story until she was ready. “But if you want me here, I’m sure I’ll find plenty to occupy my time.”

“Good,” Kathleen replied. “I’d like you to check in with the attorney, Victoria Bowdrie, in Colson today. She has some documents that need to be signed and, instead of having them forwarded here to the central office, I’ve authorized you to sign on behalf of the company.”

“All right. I’ll drive in this morning, it’ll give me an opportunity to get my bearings and check out the shopping in Colson.”

Kathleen laughed. “That’s my girl.”

“Bye, Mom.”

Kathleen rang off and Rebecca tidied up the desk, shut down the computer and headed upstairs to collect her purse and car keys.

Jackson was in the hayloft of the big barn, tearing out broken floorboards and replacing them with new planks. The huge doors stood open at each end of the loft, the slight cross-breeze doing little to cool the midmorning heat trapped beneath the rafters. He hammered a nail home and stood, wiping his brow with the back of his forearm as he walked to the open door where it was several degrees cooler. He picked up a five-gallon thermos jug off the floor just inside the door and held it aloft, twisting the spout to let the water pour over his head and shoulders before lowering it to his mouth. The cool water felt as good going down his throat as it had cascading over his torso, the slight breeze cooling him further as it flowed over his wet chest and arms.

The day promised to be another scorcher, he reflected, wondering just how hot it was.

The slap of wood against wood sounded clearly across the ranch yard. Jackson glanced toward the house and went still, the water jug forgotten in his hand.

Rebecca descended the porch steps, legs and arms tan against a white skirt and short-sleeved top. Her hair was loose, brushing against her throat and the boat-neck white top. She carried a small purse and a slim black leather briefcase.

Jackson leaned one shoulder against the door frame and watched as she walked down the path to the fence, opened and closed the gate, then rounded the front of her car and slid beneath the wheel.

What the hell am I going to do about her? He shook his head as she drove away, aware of the tighter fit of his jeans. Just watching her walk turns me on. Irritated, he turned back to the waiting broken floorboards.

Unaware she’d been observed, Rebecca retraced her journey from yesterday, but this time, she wasn’t as travel-weary and was able to take in more details of her surroundings. The land stretching away from each side of the road was as different from San Francisco as the earth from Mars. Instead of urban streets and glimpses of the sparkling blue waters of the Bay from the city’s steep, crowded hills, Rebecca saw a patchwork of green wheat fields and the black dirt of plowed land. The cultivated fields were interspersed with rough pastures dotted with silvery sagebrush. Large, often flat-topped buttes rose to loom over fields and pastures and above it all, the dome of endless, bright blue sky stretched without a cloud in sight.

As much as she appreciated San Francisco’s charm, Rebecca felt drawn to this extremely different landscape with a deep pull on her emotions that felt oddly as if she had come home.

Which was silly, she reflected. She’d never before visited Montana, let alone called this area home.

Dismissing the notion, Rebecca switched off the air conditioner, rolled down the window and luxuriated in the clean, sage-scented air that blew in, tangling her hair and sending it skeining across her face, her sunglasses keeping the strands out of her eyes.

The bright sunlight, already hot though it was only June, heated her bare arm. Rebecca wasn’t used to real summer heat. In San Francisco, the breeze off the Pacific cooled even the hottest days.

And I’ll be here for a few months, she reflected. Which means that perhaps I’ll see the fall season, too. The thought was appealing. Raised in the mild climate of California’s Pacific Coast, she hadn’t experienced the changing of seasons with the same degree of intensity Montana residents were accustomed to seeing.

The weather is one of those unique-to-the-area things that I told Jackson I’d find to enjoy here. She felt smug satisfaction that barely a day after he’d doubted that she’d find anything of interest in Colson, she had already proved him wrong.

Strange not to be stuck in traffic, nor to smell exhaust and be hit by noise with the car window down, she thought idly.

She crested a hill and below her lay the small ranching community of Colson. Slowing at the outskirts, she checked her directions. Deciding that the attorney’s Main Street address was most likely in the center of town, she turned right at the next cross street. A large, flat-roofed building on one corner had a big neon sign declaring that the Crossroads Bar and Grill was open for business. She wondered briefly if the Crossroads was the local version of a singles’ bar.

Rebecca drove through a residential area with old Victorian houses set back amid immaculate green lawns and beds of roses, peonies, marigolds and alyssum that bloomed profusely; majestic old maples shaded the wide streets. Without a map, she relied on instinct, turning left. Houses gradually gave way to commercial buildings, and in moments Rebecca found Main Street.

“Dennings Pharmacy, Annie’s Cafe,” she murmured aloud, noting that the street numbers were climbing higher. At least I’m going in the right direction.

The attorney’s office was tucked between the First National Bank and Marnie’s Dress Shop, the gold lettering on the spotless window reading “Foslund and Bowdrie, Attorneys at Law.”

Rebecca angled the car into the curb and switched off the engine, gathering her purse and briefcase.

A bell jangled as she opened the office door, and the pleasant-faced woman behind the reception desk looked up, smiling a welcome.

“Good morning. Can I help you?”

“Yes. I don’t have an appointment but I wonder if Victoria Bowdrie is available?”

“I’ll check. May I tell her who’s calling?”

“Rebecca Wallingford of Bay Area Investments.”

Moments later, a petite blonde in a cream summer business suit followed the secretary into the outer office where Rebecca stood.

“Ms. Wallingford? I’m Victoria Bowdrie.” Smiling, she held out her hand.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, and please call me Rebecca.” She returned the smile and shook the attorney’s hand. “I spoke with my mother this morning and she asked me to see you today. I believe you have some documents that need to be signed?”

“Ah, yes, of course.” Victoria waved Rebecca ahead of her and into the inner office. “An addendum to the original contract that addresses your review reports and release-of-funds dates. Have a seat, Rebecca.”

Rebecca dropped into one of two leather chairs facing the polished oak desk while Victoria took a seat behind the desk and collected a folder from a wooden tray. She opened it and handed her a sheaf of papers across the glossy desktop. “I think you’ll find these self-explanatory.”

Silence reigned while Rebecca carefully read the pages of legal jargon, puzzlement growing before she finished and looked up at Victoria.

“I’m sorry, but I’m afraid I don’t see any outstanding differences between this document and the original in my file.”

Victoria chuckled. “The changes are fairly small, but your mother wanted the details clarified.” She flipped a page on her copy of the document, scanning quickly until she found what she was looking for. “If you’ll look at page two, paragraph four, I believe you’ll find that the due date on your first report is moved back two days, with the resulting release of funds to Mr. Rand upon receipt of a favorable review by Bay Area Corporate Office to be moved back an equal amount of time.”

Rebecca reread the paragraph, noted the dates and pulled her electronic daytimer from her leather briefcase. Victoria was right, she thought, the dates were changed by two days in each instance.

Odd that Kathleen wanted her to sign the revised documents immediately, she thought with a frown. But then, she mentally shrugged, it gave her a good excuse to visit Colson and see what the town was like.

Ten minutes later, Rebecca stepped out of the office, pulled the door closed behind her, and glanced up and down the wide main street. She took a few moments to return her briefcase to her car and then strolled down the sidewalk to window-shop. Murphy’s Market yielded her favorite brand of English Breakfast tea and browsing the aisles of Dennings Pharmacy added a new bottle of hot-pink nail polish to her bag.

Rebecca strolled down one side of Main Street and halfway up the other when she reached Annie’s Cafe. An elderly gentleman pushed open the door and stepped briskly out to move off down the sidewalk. The aromas that wafted out to Rebecca through the briefly open door reminded her that it was nearly lunchtime and that more than a few hours had passed since she’d eaten a piece of toast for breakfast.

Forty minutes later, replete with homemade soup and a delicious turkey sandwich on wheat that was the luncheon special, Rebecca left the cafe, pausing to hold the door open for a group of older women entering.

The first two ladies smiled absentmindedly and murmured, “Thank you,” but the third glanced at Rebecca and halted abruptly, her eyes widening in shock, her face visibly paling.

“Who are you?” the older woman demanded.

Taken aback, Rebecca stared at the woman for a second before finding her voice. “I beg your pardon?”

“Who are you?” the woman demanded again. “And what are you doing in Colson?”

“I’m not sure that’s any of your business.” Rebecca eyed the woman. “Do I know you, ma’am?”

“You most certainly do not. Nor are you likely to.” The woman drew herself up, chin lifting haughtily. “And let me warn you, miss, whatever you’re planning, it won’t work.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Rebecca was beginning to wonder if the woman had mistaken her for someone else.

“Don’t play the innocent with me,” the woman said. “Just because you’ve got Charlie’s green eyes and black hair doesn’t prove a thing.”

“You must have me confused with someone else.”

“And if you stir up that old scandal again, you’ll be sorry,” the woman went on, as if Rebecca hadn’t spoken.

This time, she didn’t answer. Instead, she pointedly took a step back and held the door wider.

The impeccably dressed woman tilted her chin higher and swept past Rebecca and into the cafe.

Shaking her head in puzzlement, Rebecca paused on the curb, waiting for a truck to pass before crossing the wide street to her car. The drive back to the Rand Ranch gave her plenty of time to go over the strange conversation, but when she drove into the ranch yard and braked in front of the house, Jackson pushed open the screen door and the sight of him drove the incident from her mind.

Annoyed at the swift surge of pleasure that quickened her heartbeat and breathing, she drew a deep breath, gathered her briefcase, purse and light shopping bag and left the car.

She joined him on the porch, aware that his gaze hadn’t left her on the walk from car to house. “Hello,” she said pleasantly, proud of hard-won composure that kept her voice even.

“Afternoon.” He held the door for her. “If you don’t have something you need to do right now, I thought I’d take you on a tour of the outbuildings. Or we can do it after dinner tonight, if you’d rather.”

“No, now is fine.” Business, she reminded herself. This is business and he’s just another client. “Give me ten minutes to change into jeans and I’ll be right with you.”

Jackson nodded. Rebecca hurried up the stairs, dropped her packages on the bed and pulled jeans and a cotton shirt from their hangers. She stripped off the white skirt and top, quickly slipped them onto the two hangers she’d just emptied, and stepped into the jeans, yanking them up her legs and shrugging into the pale blue shirt. She buttoned the shirt with swift efficiency and tucked it into the waistband of her jeans before slipping a belt into the jean loops.

It took only moments to locate a pair of socks in her drawer, pull them on and tug on worn but polished brown hiking boots, lacing them with quick movements. Although she’d never hiked in the California mountains, she loved the boots for their practical toughness in the city’s winter rain and cold.

She glanced in the mirror, smoothed her hair with a few quick strokes of her brush and left the room.

Jackson was standing just where she’d left him, his hat tugged low over his brow, arms crossed, one shoulder leaning against the porch post, staring out across the rolling pasture that stretched to the buttes edging the horizon.

He turned when Rebecca pushed the screen door open, his gaze sweeping her from head to toe in one swift glance, generating a surge of heat.

“You should wear a hat,” he commented, plucking a straw cowboy hat from the seat of a rocking chair and handing it to her. “The sun can be dangerous if you’re not used to it.”

“Thanks.” Rebecca ignored the rush of awareness when his fingers brushed hers. His long strides made nearly two of hers, and he was ahead of her before they reached the gate. He glanced back at her and immediately slowed.

“Sorry.” He held the gate wide and Rebecca went through ahead of him. “The basic structure of most of the buildings was solid, but all of them needed a lot of work.” They set off across the lot toward the outbuildings. “A couple of cattle sheds were too far gone to save so we pulled them down. We’ll rebuild them after finishing the repairs to the barn.”

“What happened? Why did the previous owner allow the buildings to deteriorate so badly?” Rebecca asked as they stepped from the hot sunlight into the shadowy barn. Curious, she gazed upward, her eye drawn to the aged rafters visible through a hole in the hayloft floor above her. The pungent scent of raw lumber mingled with the lingering smells of hay, leather and animals.

“I doubt he meant to,” Jackson answered. “But he was over ninety years old when he passed on, and from what the neighbors tell me, he was a recluse. Running this ranch alone would be a tough job for a young man, let alone a man as old as Eli. Not only are there buildings and equipment to maintain, but miles of fence to repair. At the end, he was running only a few head of cattle and most of those were wild as jackrabbits. I doubt he even knew how many he had.”

“Do you?”

“Do I what?” He glanced at her, a small frown drawing a V between his eyebrows.

“Do you know how many cattle you have?”

He shook his head. “I haven’t got a clue. I haven’t had time to ride the pastures and round up the cattle that belonged to old Eli. I spend most Saturdays or Sundays riding the fence line, trying to keep enough strands of wire upright to hold the few wild steers and cows that belong to me on Rand pasture and off of Bowdrie grass.”

“Bowdrie? Is that Victoria Bowdrie? Is she your neighbor?” Rebecca asked with interest.

“Cully and Quinn Bowdrie own the spread to the west of me and Victoria is Quinn’s wife. Why?”

“No reason. I met Victoria Bowdrie today, in fact. She’s the reason I went into Colson this morning. There were a couple of small changes to your contract that I had to initial.”

“The wording that moved the due dates of your reports and the payment delivery dates?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“You folks are always so picky about a couple of days?” he asked, eyeing her with curiosity.

“We at Bay Area Investments prefer to call it ‘paying attention to detail,’” she responded with a touch of wry humor. Her stepfather had been a stickler for small details and her mother continued the practice. Still, she wondered why her mother had insisted that she personally initial the minor changes to the contract. She also wondered why her mother had wanted it done immediately.

The list of things that baffled Rebecca about her mother’s directions for handling the Rand Ranch investment was growing longer by the day.

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