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Temporarily Texan
Victoria Chancellor


Can An Old-Fashioned Cowboy Find Happiness With A Vegetarian?The minute Raven York sets foot in Brody's Crossing, Texas, she knows there's been a mistake. Expecting to find a heritage garden to restore, she lands instead on the doorstep of the town's hottest cowboy, who's fighting to save his family's cattle ranch from bankruptcy.Troy Crawford has requested the help of a seasoned rancher to turn the Rocking C around. What he gets is a farmer from New Hampshire, a strict vegetarian who adopts stray dogs and tries to send his calves off to a petting zoo. Raven and Troy may not see eye to eye about how to run a ranch, but the sparks flying between them are mutual.Can a Yankee like Raven be with a dyed-in-the-wool Texan in a forever kind of way? Or is she destined to be a Texan only temporarily?









Temporarily Texan

Victoria Chancellor








To my son-in-law, Dale Renno,

for making my daughter happy and giving us Lilly




Contents


Acknowledgments

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

Epilogue




Acknowledgments:


Thanks to my neighbor and friend Pris Hayes,

vegetarian and community activist, and my cousin

(of some sort!) by marriage Cody Marshall, genuine

Texas cowboy. Any errors or exaggerations are mine.




Chapter One


Raven York turned off the engine of her aging green Volvo wagon, but Pickles wasn’t quite ready to stop running yet. She coughed and sputtered a few times, then obediently fell silent. With a feeling of disbelief, Raven stepped out of her car into the vast Texas prairie. Her long skirt and hand-dyed scarf billowed in the warm breeze as she pocketed her keys and retrieved her tote bag from the passenger seat.

“I can’t believe I’m supposed to be here,” she whispered into the wind, but no one else was around to comment.

She’d never seen a more unwelcoming place in her life, and she sincerely doubted that a garden could have survived here for nearly a hundred years without careful tending.

The house wasn’t the Ponderosa, but it wasn’t Green Acres, either. It looked rawboned and bare, as if there had never been a woman around to soften its harsh edges or brighten up the drab beige of both painted wood and brick. Even the roof was taupe. Shadows from the front porch, supported by outdated aluminum scroll columns, nearly hid the brown front door and windows. Front steps ended in a sea of unmowed grass and dead tufts.

Surrounding the house, blue, red and yellow flowers dotted the rolling hills, but at the moment, all she could think about were the countless cattle gathered beyond the fence. She’d seen their poor, sad, white faces as she drove toward the house. Doomed. They were Hereford steers and their days were numbered.

She watched the cattle graze and felt as if she should cry, but she couldn’t, because she had to get to the bottom of this mix-up. Had she taken a wrong turn someplace? She’d followed the directions carefully. All the landmarks matched. The country roads had been clearly marked, and she’d made a right just past the big lopsided cottonwood tree that had been split by lightning.

Surely the Society for the Preservation of Heritage Gardens would not have sent her to a working cattle ranch.

Raven crushed the woven jute handle of her tote and took a deep breath. She vaguely heard a door closing, which meant people were around somewhere. Well, she’d just march right up to the door and get some answers. Maybe she was jumping to conclusions. Maybe things weren’t what they seemed…

And then she spotted the tall, lean cowboy who stepped out of the shadows. With his crossed arms and angular, set features, he might as well have shouted, Go away, instead of silently leaning against one of those ugly aluminum columns and staring a hole through her.

Raven’s stomach felt as if she were still on the bumpy narrow road that had brought her from the state highway to this ranch. She pressed her hand to her middle as she stared back at the cowboy. Why didn’t he wave or come to greet her?

She forced herself to walk calmly toward the hostile-looking house. Surely there had been a mistake.

She smiled tightly. “Hello, I’m Raven York. I may have taken a wrong turn. I’m looking for the Rocking C.”

“You’ve found it,” he answered, pushing away from the aluminum column.

She looked back toward the pasture where the cattle grazed and felt her smile fade. “Really?”

“I’m Troy Crawford. Call me Troy,” he drawled, unwinding his arms and taking a step toward her. Upon closer observation, he wasn’t really threatening. His handsome face appeared intense, and he looked as if he were just a fraction as confused as she was.

Sometimes she got a feeling for things that others didn’t. A couple of her friends who professed to be psychic claimed she had a “gift,” but Raven went along with her pal, Della, who said that some people were just more observant than others.

“So you’re the expert the association sent?” he asked.

“Well, yes, I do have experience—”

“I hate to tell you this,” he said with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes and wasn’t reflected in his voice, “but you just don’t look the part.” He gazed pointedly at Pickles, then turned his disapproval on her, giving her a thorough inspection from the top of her curly black hair to the toes of her canvas sandals.

It stunned her how he could be so insulting with just a glare. “I was thinking the same thing about your ranch.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked with a frown.

She pulled herself a little straighter and tightened her hold on the jute handle. “Your ranch doesn’t look like the kind of place where my services would be needed.”

“For one thing, maybe the association didn’t tell you but this isn’t really my ranch. My brother runs it, but he’s in the military. The Rocking C has been in my family for a little over a hundred years, though.”

“Oh, I see.” Not that she really did, of course. He was confusing and cryptic, and all she wanted to do was get to the bottom of this assignment.

“My brother Cal asked me to take care of the place while he’s gone, and he asked the association to send someone to help me.”

He said the word help as if he didn’t believe he needed any. Or didn’t believe the person his brother sent would be any use.

“I haven’t been a rancher in fifteen years,” he added. “I’m a marketing director for Devboran cattle. It’s a new breed, a cross between beef Devons and African Borans, so you might not recognize it. Normally, I live in Fort Worth, but I’m on the road a lot.”

Raven frowned. “I see, but why did you need me?”

“I already told you,” he said, giving her another one of those not-quite-sincere smiles as he reached for her bag. “I’m not a rancher. I’ve taken a leave of absence from my job to help out my brother.”

She held on for a moment too long, before realizing he was pretty intent on dragging her big tote into his house. She let go and he opened the door.

I’m not a rancher, either! she felt like shouting. Instead, she ignored the building’s unwelcome vibes and followed him inside.

“You might not be a rancher, but you look like a cowboy.”

He turned back with an amused look on his face. “Yeah? And how is a cowboy supposed to look?”

That smile could melt butter in January, she thought as she peered at him in the dim interior light. He was definitely handsome. At a little over six feet of lean muscle, long legs encased in the requisite jeans and scuffed boots on what must be size-twelve feet, he sure looked as if he could ride and rope and…whatever else cowboys did.

“I’m not sure, I suppose. I’m from New Hampshire.”

His smile faded and he looked at her as if questioning her response. “Okay, then.”

She wanted to say, Okay, what? but for the sake of getting off on the right foot simply followed him into the eat-in kitchen. The large square room seemed to be the hub of the house where the hallway came together with the living spaces.

The kitchen was just as dreary and outdated as the exterior of the house, with beige vinyl flooring, dull brown cabinets and faded floral wallpaper. The pseudocowboy staring out the back windows appeared far more interesting than the decor.

“Can I get you a glass of water or a soda?”

“No, I’m fine, thank you.”

“I suppose the association mentioned that I have a guest bedroom for you here at the house. Is that okay?”

“Yes, they did say I’d have accommodations on the property.” She’d envisioned a quaint guest cottage surrounded by roses and bluebonnets. They hadn’t explained that she’d be sharing a very isolated house with a handsome cowboy. She wasn’t certain how she felt about that setup in the light of day, much less in the dark of night.

“Is anyone else living here?” Wife and children, perhaps.

“No, it’s just me. Neither Cal nor I are married.”

“I see.” So, they would be alone.

“My bedroom is down the hall,” he said as if reading her thoughts. “You’ll be at this end of the house with your own bathroom.”

“All right.” They wouldn’t be sharing a bath, but she was near to the kitchen and living areas. Not as private as that nice guest cottage she’d envisioned.

“I grew up here in this house,” he said, cutting into her wandering thoughts. “I left for college and haven’t worked on a ranch since I was eighteen.”

“Do you miss it?”

He paused a moment too long. “No.”

“Oh. But—” She hurried to catch up as he turned down the hallway to the left. What did he study in college? Did he miss his job? How long was he taking off?

And why was she so interested in a brooding Texan who was so difficult to read?

“This is your room,” he said, placing her tote bag on the double bed. The brown coverlet had probably been put there before Troy Crawford left for college. The off-white walls hadn’t been painted recently, either, and the dresser and nightstand were of some type of dark wood. Nubby beige drapes hung from a sagging rod.

She looked back at Troy Crawford and found him watching her. “It’s not a five-star hotel, but I imagine you’ve stayed in worse.”

“Oh, I wasn’t…Sorry. The room is a surprise. I wasn’t sure what to expect. It’s just that I’ve never stayed in a ranch house before.”

“What?”

“Most of my work has been done east of the Mississippi.”

“I wouldn’t think there were many ranches that needed your help back there.”

“Ranches? No, but there are lots of homesteads, some with three or four generations still living on the same land that was settled in the 1700s.”

He frowned. “Why would you care about historic homesteads?”

She frowned right back, more confused than ever. “Because that’s how I glean much of my knowledge.”

“About their cattle?”

“No,” she replied slowly. “About their heritage gardens.”

“Gardens? What are you…Wait a minute.” She watched an entire evolution of expression transform his face. “You aren’t a ranch expert, are you?”

“Of course not! I’m a vegetarian. I’m against eating beef. Any kind of meat, for that matter.”

Troy Crawford rubbed a hand across his face. “I knew there was something wrong.”

“Just as I did when I arrived on a working cattle ranch!”

“Wait a minute. Why did you think you were here?”

“To document and restore a heritage garden.”

“A what?”

“A garden used by settlers to provide herbs, fruit, vegetables and beauty.”

“Dammit. I need a cattle expert.”

“Well, the last place I want to be is on a cattle ranch. I’m looking for old roses and tomatoes, daisies and berry bushes. Ranching is against everything I believe.”

“Then you are definitely in the wrong place.”

“What did I just say?”

He turned away and looked up at the dingy popcorn ceiling. “Well, we’ll go call the association and get this straightened out.”

“Sure. There’s probably a simple explanation.”

“The cattle guy is probably in the next town, wondering why there’s an old garden and no stock.”

“Right. And the person who needed my help is probably wondering why the man on their doorstep knows more about feed than seed.”

“Okay then. Let’s get this cleared up.”

She followed him out of the gloomy guest bedroom, relieved she wouldn’t be staying there for two weeks.



TROY SETTLED BACK IN THE desk chair and willed himself to be patient. “I know I’m not the person who requested the expert. I’m the brother. Cal Crawford is in the military, in Afghanistan. That’s Calvin P. Crawford IV for the record. He contacted you via e-mail and requested a cattle specialist to come out to the Rocking C in Brody’s Crossing, Texas.” He’d told this story already, to the receptionist. Sweet girl, but she hadn’t been helpful, either. “The expert showed up today, right on schedule, but she’s a gardener, not a cattleman.”

“Mr. Crawford, we don’t send out gardening experts. Everyone who’s a member of the Farmers’ and Ranchers’ Society deals with livestock and related issues.”

“I know that, but I’m telling you, the person who is here knows nothing about cattle. Do you have a record of Raven York? She’s from New Hampshire, for crying out loud!” Hardly cattle country.

“Let me check.”

Troy wedged the phone between his shoulder and neck while he listened to bad elevator music. He hoped they remembered he was on hold. While he waited, he booted up the computer but then remembered that there was only one phone line in the house, and he was currently using it. He couldn’t get on the Internet to check his e-mail via the antiquated modem and that increased his frustration level.

Dammit, he understood why Cal thought Troy needed help. He hadn’t lived on this ranch—on any ranch—for a long time. But any number of neighbors could have come to his aid, as they’d offered since he’d been back to the area. He’d seen them when he went into town, although he didn’t have much time to socialize. He had three ranch hands who worked according to Cal’s instructions, but they didn’t have the training or experience to run a ranch on their own. They couldn’t make decisions about breeding or culling the herd, or changing feed or buying hay if needed.

The elevator music stopped. “No, we don’t have a record of Raven York as a member or a paid consultant. Are you sure that’s her name?”

“I didn’t ask for ID, but that’s what she said.”

“She’s not from our association. Maybe she was sent by someone else.”

“Any idea who would send a Yankee vegetarian animals rights lover to a Texas cattle ranch?”

“Er, well, no.”

“Have you ever heard of the Society for the Preservation of Heritage Gardens?” Troy asked.

“No, I haven’t.”

Troy scrubbed his hand over his eyes. “Is there anyone else at the office we can check with?”

“Yes, but he’s on the phone right now.”

“There’s just the two of you?”

“This isn’t a big association. To be perfectly honest, we’re a little old-fashioned.”

Join the club, Troy felt like saying.

“We specialize in the general farm and ranch, whereas a lot of the groups are more specific to a breed or a type of operation. We support the family ranch and do our best to keep the traditions alive.”

That sounded like something out of a brochure, but Troy didn’t point that out, since he was in marketing himself. In his real job. When he wasn’t getting a headache on his family ranch. Thankfully, his assistant back in Fort Worth was handling most of the day-to-day duties, and Troy could advise via phone or e-mail when necessary.

“I know. We raise Herefords, and our father was a member, and my brother since our dad passed away. But I’m more interested in the specific request my brother made. He asked for a ranching expert. He’s paid dues for years and all he’s gotten so far is a bimonthly magazine. We need help, and we need it now.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Crawford, but I don’t see any request. I’ll have to talk to Mr. Sam Goodman, the general manager, but he’s still on the phone. I’ll give him the information you told me and we’ll see what we can find. He’s been running this association since the 1970s, and he has a terrific memory.”

For someone who’d been working at the same job for the past forty years and is probably past retirement age, Troy wanted to add. “Just get back to me as quickly as possible. Ms. York wants to find out where she’s supposed to be, and I need to locate my ranching expert before the end of the day.”

“We’ll sure do our best.”

Troy gave the man the numbers for his cell phone and the ranch phone, then hung up. He’d detected no sense of urgency, despite the fact it was Friday afternoon. He doubted Mr. Goodman or anyone else worked over the weekend.

“Any news?” his non-cattle-expert asked from the doorway of the office.

“No. I called the association in Bellville. That’s a little town northwest of Houston. They’ve never heard of you and the person I talked to didn’t have any record of Cal’s request. Hopefully, the senior guy will know something, but he’s busy.”

“Is it a big association?”

“No.” Of course not. A big association would charge a lot more money and would not have a list of retired volunteers who took on assignments for peanuts. A big association might have a list of top-notch consultants, but they would charge thousands of dollars for helpful advice. Troy really didn’t think the person Cal had asked for could save the ranch, but dammit, it had been Cal’s decision. Troy felt as if he owed it to his brother to try this approach…first.

“If I could use your phone, I’ll call my contact at the Society for the Preservation of Heritage Gardens. It’s a small group, too, but maybe we’ll have more luck getting answers.”

“Good idea.” Troy handed her the ancient phone that had sat on the desk for at least thirty years, then got up from the chair and stepped aside. “Have a seat. I’m going to grab a soft drink. Would you like one?”

“No, thank you. I have some water.”

She probably didn’t drink soda anyway. She was around average height, a little on the slim side, but not that two-hour-on-the-StairMaster trim that he observed in some other women. In Fort Worth, he often saw artificially plump lips, small noses and hollow cheekbones. They didn’t look all that real, especially when combined with large breasts on skinny women. Raven York seemed natural, as if she never thought about her looks, just her comfort.

But, heck, what did he know? And why was he spending any time thinking about it, since she’d probably get her answer and be gone by sundown.



RAVEN DIALED THE NUMBER OF the society that was working with the heritage homestead back home. They were a small group located in Florida, but had some excellent members who were willing to help with research and restoration. The project near her New Hampshire farm was especially important because there wasn’t another authentic homestead like it open to the public in her area. Schoolchildren would really benefit from seeing a working homestead from their ancestors’ era.

As soon as the phone-answering system kicked on, Raven started to worry. She dialed the director’s extension, and listened to a slightly feeble voice on the recording.

“This is Mrs. Margaret Philpot. I will be out of the office on Friday afternoon and all weekend visiting my grandchildren. I should be back in the office late Monday or Tuesday. Please leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as possible.”

Oh, no! “Mrs. Philpot, this is RavenYork. You sent me a letter and instructions about coming to Brody’s Crossing, Texas, to the Rocking C ranch to document a historic homestead garden. I’m here, and the owner of the ranch knows nothing about a garden. As a matter of fact, he was expecting a cattle expert! Please, we’re trying to figure out how this mix-up happened. Call us back as soon as possible.”

She gave Mrs. Philpot the number of the ranch, which was neatly typed on the round insert in the middle of the old black phone. “Please, let her call back soon,” Raven whispered, crossing her fingers.

“No luck, either?” Troy Crawford asked from the doorway.

“No, but I’m sure she’ll check in for messages.” At least, Raven hoped she did. Since Mrs. Philpot didn’t leave a cell phone or other number, the odds weren’t great.

“This is bizarre,” he said.

Raven silently agreed.



AFTER WAITING FIFTEEN MINUTES and then placing another phone call to the Farmers’ and Ranchers’ Society, Troy felt his blood pressure rise a few notches. He put the phone down and turned to Raven. “Mr. Sam, as I’ve just learned they affectionately call the older gentleman who runs the place, will call me back as soon as they find out what happened to Cal’s request.”

“As my New England ancestors used to say, patience is a virtue.”

“Right. So are a few other traits that I don’t seem to be in possession of right now.”

“Well then,” she said, straightening up, “I’ll just get a few things out of the car. I’m going to have a snack while we wait for the phone call.”

“You’re welcome to raid my fridge if you’d like.”

“No offense, Mr. Crawford, but I doubt it’s stocked with organic vegetarian food.”

“Certainly nothing organic unless some mold has grown on the cheese.”

She wrinkled her nose at his joke. Well, a halfhearted joke. The cheese probably was moldy.

“I’ll just get my tofu and fresh fruit. I’m sure the ice I put in the cooler this morning is probably melting, and the tofu needs to be kept cold.”

Tofu. He’d tried it once at a Japanese restaurant in Seattle. Bean curd had the consistency of slimy, firm pudding and tasted like…well, bean curd. “Help yourself to whatever you need.” There was no reason to be inhospitable just because they were worlds apart in values and backgrounds. She seemed nice enough when she wasn’t turning up her nose at cattle ranching.

“Thank you. And you’re welcome to join me.”

He tried to hide his own grimace. “Thanks, but I…er, gave up bean curd for Lent, years ago. I think I’ll wait for that call.”

“Of course.” She turned in a swirl of skirts and scarves and long black hair. That woman sure was swirly. And when she got a little peeved, her cheeks flushed a nice shade of peach.

Not that he had any reason to catalog her looks. As soon as they got the mix-up fixed, she’d be gone. Or maybe before, if she decided to leave on her own. She had no reason to stay on the Rocking C, especially since she found cattle ranching so objectionable.

Troy rubbed his face for what seemed like the hundredth time today. He didn’t need this. He needed help—whether arranged by Cal or himself—not criticism from a kind-of-cute vegetarian garden expert.

He unclenched his hands and stared at the phone, willing it to ring. He wanted to find out something before he e-mailed Cal in Afghanistan. If he was out on patrol or somewhere equally remote, he might not reply for days. Besides, it would only make him more concerned about the ranch if he knew the specialist he was depending on hadn’t shown up.

Troy promised himself that he’d give Mr. Goodman half an hour, then he’d call back. If the senior person there couldn’t help him, Troy would do some research on his own. Surely he could discover how this mess had happened.

After all, as his swirly-girly reluctant guest had suggested, there had to be some connection between the two completely different associations.




Chapter Two


“I can’t believe neither one of us could get any answers,” Raven said as she followed Troy from the home office into the kitchen an hour later.

He’d tried to call his association again, but with no luck other than the vague promise that they’d get back to him ASAP. The Internet hadn’t yielded any results for them, either. There was no apparent connection between the two groups.

Raven leaned against the kitchen counter near the sink. “I can’t believe Mrs. Philpot is the only person who can sort this out for me. This is just too bizarre.”

He opened the refrigerator and took out a beer. “Tell me about it. Every day without the guy I was expecting is another day wasted.” He held up the brown bottle for her to see. “Care to join me?”

“No. I’m too upset.”

He took a long drink from the bottle. She watched his throat move as he swallowed the cold beer. Odd, but she’d never thought swallowing beer could be so…sensual. He lowered the bottle and asked, “What kind of arrangement do you have with the gardening folks?”

“I’m helping a local organization get a historic farm certified by the state. The property and house were donated to the township but had to be renovated. The construction is just about complete, and we’re ready to plant the garden.”

“But why are you here?”

“The township felt it was better to have someone experienced to plant the garden rather than getting the locals to do it. So I volunteered to come down here for at least two weeks and work in the garden while, in return, the Society for the Preservation of Heritage Gardens will restore a homestead garden near where I live in New Hampshire. It’s rather like Habitat for Humanity, where people work in each other’s homes and eventually get their own house.”

“So you and your colleagues trade out time to help each other?”

“That’s right. We’re not paid. We’re all volunteers.”

“That must be tough—to take time away from your own jobs for two weeks.”

“Some people do it on their vacations, but in my case, I have a good friend, Della, who is taking care of my farm. She has an apartment in the city, but we work together on a lot of fiber projects, so she’s often at my place.”

He finished the beer and tossed the bottle into the trash container in the corner of the kitchen, on top of newspapers, cans, coffee grounds and cardboard boxes. Why was she surprised that he didn’t recycle or compost? She fought the urge to criticize his lifestyle.

“Surely the society will understand if there’s been a mix-up. You can make new arrangements, can’t you?”

She shook her head as she followed him across the kitchen. “You have to remember that our growing period up north is so much shorter than yours. We don’t have time to reschedule. If I don’t fulfill my obligation, the society could say that they won’t send anyone to New Hampshire.”

“Yeah, I can’t wait for my expert to show up, either. My brother will be gone about six more months and I need to turn this place around. By the time he gets back, this ranch could be in big trouble if I’m on my own.”

“Well, I’d hate to see your brother homeless, but I can’t say that I’m sad a cattle ranch is going out of business.”

He frowned at her as he opened the refrigerator. “You won’t be so happy when you learn that I’d have to sell off all the stock, including the three little orphaned calves out in the barn.” He removed several oversize plastic bottles fitted with big nipples.

She decided to ignore the concept of “selling off” the stock. “Oh, are you going to feed them? I love calves.” She’d raised two calves from a neighboring dairy farmer a few years ago.

He rolled his eyes at her enthusiasm. “These are just orphaned beef cattle, and right now they need their supper.”

“May I come with you? I have experience with calves.”

He glanced at the clock over the old-fashioned stove. “It’s already after five here, six o’clock in Florida, so I doubt we’ll be getting any phone calls today.” He started toward the door, then turned, nearly colliding with her. He pointed a finger. “Don’t get any ideas about the calves.”

She schooled her features and raised her eyebrows. “I have no idea what you mean.”

“Yeah, you do, and I’m just warning you…”

“I’ll consider myself warned, Mr. Crawford.”

The sun was low and bright in the western sky as they stepped outside. Raven shielded her eyes as they strode toward the big whitewashed barn. She used the walk to calm herself down after Troy’s scolding about the calves. He certainly had a way of getting under her skin.

She should probably leave to find a motel room before the sun set, but she wanted to look around just a little before she left the Crawford ranch for good. There might be interesting differences between New Hampshire and Texas farms. She tried to learn from each place she visited.

“What’s that?” she asked as she hurried to keep up with Troy’s longer stride. She’d hoped to find a garden, even one in terrible disrepair, behind the house, but there was none. Only a few wildflowers competed with the tufts of grass.

“The smokehouse,” he told her as he continued across the yard, “but I don’t think it’s used anymore.”

“Why is that?” Raven asked, even though she had little interest in the answer. She seriously doubted the Crawfords smoked vegetables.

“Cal lives here alone and I don’t think he entertains a lot. He doesn’t need to smoke that much meat. Back when my grandparents lived here, I think they sold what they smoked.”

“Oh. Did they have a large family?”

“Just one.”

“Your father?”

“Right.”

Raven fell silent as they neared the barn. A small flock of white leghorn and Rhode Island Red chickens scattered around them, then immediately went back to chasing grasshoppers and scratching for seeds. The breeze brought the sweet scent of horses and their feed, of fresh hay and manure. The smells were familiar and reassuring, and for a moment she almost forgot she was on a cattle ranch.

“How about you?” Crawford asked, stopping at the barn. It was as if he’d suddenly remembered to be conversational. “Do you have a big family?”

“No,” Raven said slowly. She didn’t like to recall her childhood and there wasn’t anything about her single mother that Raven cared to share with strangers. “I’m an only child. My mother lives in Manchester, New Hampshire, while I have a small farm in the country.”

He opened the door and motioned for her to go inside. “Watch your step.”

“Thanks,” she said as her eyes adjusted to the low light inside.

“There are some horses here that Cal and the ranch hands use to work the cattle.”

“Oh. I heard that some ranchers use all-terrain vehicles, or even airplanes, to handle—or perhaps I should say harass—their herds. I can’t say I agree with those methods. Horses are much more ecofriendly.”

He frowned and narrowed his eyes but didn’t respond to her gibe. “The Rocking C isn’t big enough for a plane, and as for ATVs, well, Cal is a real traditionalist.”

There was a note of disapproval in Troy’s voice when he spoke of his brother’s ranching methods.

“I’ll get those calves fed.”

“Oh! Poor babies.” Sad, orphaned little calves. They had no mother, and although they didn’t know it, they didn’t have any future, either. She had an urge to comfort them. She always felt more grounded when she was with animals, especially the ones who needed her. The ones starved of affection.

He gave her a look that told her he wasn’t as sympathetic to the calves’ plight. “Remember, they’re beef on the hoof. When they’re old enough, they’ll join the herd. I’ll see to them.”

“You don’t think I should care about your precious ‘beef on the hoof,’ as you so charmingly classify them, do you? Even if they are just babies.”

“They’re calves, not babies, and the answer is no.”

“I’m only trying to be helpful.”

“These are my brother’s animals and my responsibility. You’re only here until we get this mix-up straightened out, remember? You don’t need to get attached.”

“A little kindness can’t hurt them.”

No, but it could hurt you, Troy thought as he saw the yearning in Raven’s expressive face. Did the woman not know how to hide her emotions? She was too softhearted by a mile, and despite her occasional scathing remarks about cattle ranching, apparently hadn’t learned to put up barriers to keep from getting hurt by life’s realities.

Out here, deadlines and budgets and physical limits didn’t allow him or his ranch hands the kind gestures and gentle sentiments Raven liked to indulge. The bank loan had to be repaid from the sale of the cattle, and you sure as hell couldn’t think about the cattle’s feelings when you were out to get a good price per pound on the hoof. And what if the drought didn’t break or a tornado hit the buildings or a hailstorm smashed through the ranch? The cattle could become infested with insects or disease might wipe out a herd. Too many bad things could happen in a heartbeat to speed the end of the Crawford family ranch that Cal spent his life trying to preserve.

Or maybe Raven lived in some sort of fairy-tale land in New Hampshire. Maybe she’d never faced the real world. Growing up on a cattle ranch had toughened him up fast, especially after his mother had left the intolerable dynamics of the Crawford family—not to mention the harsh realities of ranch life—for greener pastures.

“Look, I don’t want to argue with you. I’m going to feed the calves. If you really want to help, you can give each of the five horses half a scoop of sweet feed and a scoop of oats.”

“You keep them in the barn all the time?”

“No, they’re in the stalls today so the ranching expert could see them.” He shook his head. “Normally, if they aren’t working, they’d be in the pasture.”

“I’ll be glad to feed them,” she said. “Where do you keep their grain?”

He pointed out the tack room, the feed room and the tiny bedroom that at one time had been occupied by a wrangler. Now, its single bed, nightstand and straight-back chair was even more dusty and dingy than the furniture in the house, and all the workers lived elsewhere. Even the bunkhouse, which at one time housed a half-dozen cowboys, was falling in on itself.

Much like the economic structure of this ranch…

Raven went off to see to the horses. Within fifteen minutes Troy had the calves fed, although the ungrateful beasts had managed to get milk and slobber all over his clean shirt and jeans. He closed their stall door and found Raven looking him over, a slight smile on her face.

“Is there anything else I can help you with?” she asked. He seemed a little worse for wear. Maybe the calves knew he wasn’t all that sympathetic to their plight and had made him pay. Or maybe she was projecting a little.

“Not in those clothes,” he said, eyeing her up and down, making her very self-conscious.

“They’re comfortable,” Raven said in defense of her chosen style. Full skirts, sweaters or tunics and sandals were so pleasant to wear, even if she did look as out of place as…well, a New Hampshire Yankee in the heart of cattle country.

“Did you bring something more practical for Texas?”

“Of course. But these are some of my favorite things. Most of the clothes I’m wearing were made by friends or myself. I knit and weave, but someone I know crocheted this scarf. Another sews vintage fabrics into new garments and crafted my skirt.”

“Nice hobbies, I suppose, if you have the time.”

She suddenly felt she needed to defend more than her clothing choices. His flippant words denigrated a whole group of people who believed in creating something beautiful and functional from natural fibers, not manufactured in cookie-cutter style from synthetic materials. But it wouldn’t do any good to start a philosophical argument here in the barn, so she explained through clenched teeth, “It’s not a hobby for most of us, it’s a livelihood.”

“So you’re part of an artsy-craftsy bunch back in New Hampshire? I thought you lived on a farm.”

“I run a working farm, where we use what we produce. You’re making it sound as if we’re frivolous.”

“No, I’m not,” he said with a smile.

“Yes, you are, and I don’t appreciate your constant condemnation of my lifestyle.”

He shook his head. “Lady, I don’t know enough about your lifestyle to condemn it, even if that was my intention, which it’s not. So don’t get on your high horse about my attitude. It seems to me that you’re just a little too defensive.”

“Oh, so now my food, clothing and opinions are wrong!”

“I didn’t say they were wrong. They’re just not…normal for Texas.”

“The entire world does not revolve around Texas!”

“I know that, but lots of folks down here don’t feel that way, so you might want to rein in your Yankee sentiments and eccentricities.”

“I am true to myself, Mr. Crawford, and that’s not something that I can change.”

“Well, good for you. I hope you aren’t planning on a long stay or forming a lot of close relationships with Texans.”

“I came here to do a job, not to make lots of friends.” She paused, then lifted her chin. “Although, I must admit, I’m very good at making new friends. I have them all over.”

He raised an eyebrow and asked, “Ever been to Texas before?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“Well, there you go.” He took off across the yard.

“What do you mean by that?” She almost had to jog to keep up. White and red chickens scattered in their wake.

“Stick around. You’ll see.”

By the time she reached the back door of the house, he was holding it open for her.

“I think it’s time for me to leave.”

“Come on inside and we’ll talk about it.”

She stepped into the kitchen. “It’s obvious we don’t get along. Besides, it’s going to be dark soon. I need to go into town and find a place to stay tonight.”

“Um, it’s not that easy.”

“What do you mean?” Was he forbidding her from leaving? Was he threatening her? She knew he didn’t like her, but really…

“There’s not much in Brody’s Crossing.”

“You mean there are no hotels, no bed-and-breakfasts?”

“Not a one. There used to be a motel on the road toward Jacksboro, but it closed a long time ago. Of course, there are a few motels in Graham, if you want to drive over there. It’s at least fifteen miles.”

“Well, that’s…unfortunate.” She sighed and resisted the urge to slump. She’d come so far today she couldn’t face driving to the next town. “Are you absolutely sure?”

“To the best of my knowledge, there’s not even a room to rent in Brody’s Crossing.”

“Maybe there’s something you don’t know about.”

He shrugged. “You can stay here,” Troy said with a definite lack of enthusiasm.

“Really, I don’t think you mean that, and besides, it’s not a good idea.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s obvious you don’t want me here. I’m not your ranching expert and I’m not a friend. You don’t approve of anything I do, of who I am, so I think it would be best if we parted ways.”

“I was just joking about the tofu.”

“And my vegetarian lifestyle? And my clothes? And my friends with the frivolous little hobbies?”

“Okay, maybe I was a little hard on you, which I shouldn’t be. I…I kind of know what it’s like to be treated disrespectfully.” He shrugged again. “Let’s just say that I was joking.”

“You were not, and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t insult my intelligence as well as every other part of me.”

“I didn’t do it intentionally.”

“If I may paraphrase an old western movie, this house ain’t big enough for the both of us.”

He laughed. “That’s pretty good.”

“Thank you. Now, I’d better collect my tote bag and cooler and get on the road. Again.”

“That was a Willie Nelson song.”

“What was?” she asked as she walked down the hall to the depressing guest bedroom.

“‘On the Road Again.’ Do you know it?”

“No, not really. We don’t listen to much Willie Nelson on our artsy little vegetarian farms.”

She grabbed the heavy tote bag from the brown bedspread, and when she turned, Troy Crawford was blocking the door, his forearms resting on the door lintel.

“I’m sorry I was rude to you. Sometimes I joke around when I’m really pis—um, I mean upset. I wasn’t lashing out at you as much as at the situation.”

“I’m just as upset about this mess, but I’m not attacking your choices.”

He sighed and looked down at the floor. “Well, you did say you didn’t mind if the ranch failed, but that’s no excuse, I guess. I’m really sorry. Will you accept my apology?”

“Gladly. If you’ll allow me to walk out that door.”

“You’re free to go, but I’m telling you, there’s no place to go. Look, if it would make you feel better, you can have the house to yourself. I’ll stay in the barn.”

She sighed. “Thank you for the offer, but I don’t want to put you out. There must be somewhere to stay. Perhaps I could use your phone to call?”

“You’re free to use the phone as much as you want.”

She carried her bag to the door and looked up into Troy Crawford’s face. “Thank you.”

He lowered his arms, stepped back and reached for the jute handle. “You’re welcome.”

Instead of arguing about who would carry the bag, she handed it over and followed him to the study.

“Just answer one question for me,” he said, pausing at the door and turning back to look at her.

“Okay.”

“Why don’t you have a cell phone?”

She sighed. “I had one until two days ago.”

“What happened?”

“The goat ate it.”

“The goat?”

“Billy. He eats everything,” she said with a sigh. “Once he ate my purse while I was talking to a friend, and I didn’t even notice until the strap fell off my shoulder.”

Troy laughed, but she didn’t think it was funny that her cell phone was now in a compost heap in New Hampshire.

“I didn’t have time to replace it before I left for Texas.” Much less the money, since it wasn’t insured. “Now, can I make those calls before it gets any later?”



FIFTEEN MINUTES AND SEVERAL phone calls later, Raven was finally convinced that there weren’t any motels, hotels or bed-and-breakfasts in or around Brody’s Crossing. She probably should have believed Troy Crawford, but it had seemed so unlikely that there was no place within a reasonable distance where she could rent a room. That was unheard of in New England, but she remembered all the wide-open spaces along the highways as she’d driven through Oklahoma and Texas, so she supposed it made sense in the West.

She sat alone in the Crawford home office and wondered what she was going to do now. Accept his hospitality, grudging though it might be, or…what? Money was somewhat tight. She could sleep in her car, but where, and for how long? Besides, the weather was so hot!

And really, where was the need, when Troy Crawford had offered her his guest room? He’d even volunteered to sleep in the barn, for goodness’ sake! The hot, dusty barn. She’d taken a peek inside the small bedroom out there, and she wouldn’t wish it on anyone. It was even more depressing than this bare-bones, no-style, outdated house.

“Did you find a place to stay?” he asked, startling her as he leaned against the door frame. The man was so silent. He didn’t hum or whistle or stomp around.

“No, as I’m sure you knew. As you’d warned me.”

“So are you going to stay here? I’ve got to tell you, it’s a long drive to anywhere, especially at night.”

She sighed. “I know it is. Besides, maybe Mrs. Philpot or Mr. Sam will call or e-mail with some answers.”

“Perhaps, but I wouldn’t bet on it until Monday.”

“I know.”

“Well, then, I’ll get my things together. I’ll go out to the barn to sleep, but I have some work to do first.”

She might regret this in the morning, but she couldn’t put him out of his own home. She faced the other wall and absently folded the length of her scarf. “No, you don’t have to stay in the barn. I mean, this is your house. If you wanted to get in, you could. I’m sure there are keys. I feel safe with you in the daylight, so I’m certain I’ll feel equally safe at night.”

“You’re sure?”

He said the words so softly that she had to look back at him to see his expression. Unfortunately, he gave nothing away. Just that softer than expected question.

“Of course,” she said briskly, letting the scarf slip through her fingers.




Chapter Three


Raven pushed away from the desk and stood up. “I’ll be glad to help with dinner.”

“Um, are you sure you can cook?”

“I cook for myself all the time!”

“I doubt I have any of the ingredients you’re used to.”

“I doubt that you do, either. Fortunately, I brought a supply of food until I can locate organic vegetables.”

He shook his head. “Good luck with that. Most folks around here believe in ‘better living through chemistry.’”

“I’m sure there are some people who grow their own produce without pesticides or chemical fertilizers.”

“If you say so.”

“I’ll track them down.”

He held up a hand. “I wish you more luck than you had finding a motel.”

She took a deep breath, ready to argue some more, but all the steam when out of her. He was probably right about the vegetables. After all, he was from round here. She was the visitor, the outsider.

This was not a role she relished. She hadn’t enjoyed being considered “different” when she was a child, and she didn’t like it now. Back in New Hampshire, she fit right in. She had friends, business associates, acquaintances. She had like-minded e-contacts around the globe.

But in Texas, at least in this part of the state, she was definitely odd.

“If we can’t prepare a meal together, may I at least use your kitchen? I promise to clean up after myself.”

“Of course. I’d fix you a meal, but you probably wouldn’t eat it.”

She swallowed her affirmation. “I’m sure you’re a fine cook.”

“Beef, beef and more beef.”

“Yuck, yuck and more yuck. Do you ever think about how cruelly the cattle are treated?”

“It barely crosses my mind. And really, that’s a small part of their life. Most of the time, they get to graze in a pasture, hang out with their friends and eat all they want.”

“Before they are suddenly taken away from everything they know and placed in an overcrowded, dirty stockyard, then prodded into a slaughterhouse!”

“Look, I think of animals as animals, and you obviously want to give them human emotions. We aren’t going to agree on this. Can’t we just move on?”

Raven wasn’t so sure she could “move on” past his beef-obsessed views. However, she was a guest in his home and it was her duty to be more polite than she’d been.

“I’m sorry. You’re right—let’s just not discuss it.”

“Right. Now, would you like to go first?”

“What?”

“In the kitchen. That way, it won’t be…well, contaminated by my meal.”

“I don’t think your food is toxic. Well, not exactly. In the long term, perhaps.”

“And there we were, getting along so well,” he teased.

Raven sighed. “I’ll get the rest of my food out of Pickles.” She’d brought jars of homegrown food from New Hampshire—beans and potatoes, carrots, squash and vegetable soup—that she’d canned herself, plus bread and cheese she’d made. She’d been on one of these assignments before and knew she might not find any organic or wholesome food to eat.

“Pickles?”

“My car. Her name is Pickles.”

He muttered something that she couldn’t quite make out, and probably didn’t want to.

“Won’t be a minute,” she said, scooting around the desk.

“I’ll give you a hand.”

“No, that won’t be…” And then she thought twice. Those boxes and canvas satchels were pretty heavy, and Troy Crawford looked as if he could carry a lot on his big shoulders.

She reminded herself that she didn’t really like overbearing men who could pick up whatever, whenever they wanted. As if they were superior because they were stronger than nice intellectual males. And she especially didn’t like men who made teasing remarks about important issues!

All right, that was better. She was much more centered now. She and Troy had nothing in common, and even if they did, he wasn’t an academic or an artist.

“Yes, thank you,” she finally said. Being a gracious houseguest was much harder than she’d anticipated. She only hoped they could keep being civil to each other until the mix-up was resolved. Somewhere around here was a garden that needed her help, and she was going to find it before she bid a not-so-fond farewell to Texas—and Troy Crawford—forever.



RAVEN YORK WAS TRYING WAY too hard to be cooperative. Besides, she was too cheerful in the morning. She bustled around the kitchen before dawn making tea and toasting some dark, yeasty bread she’d brought from New Hampshire. As he’d filled bottles with milk for the calves, she’d asked twice how she could help him.

She wanted badly to feed those calves. He knew it, and he was standing firm.

“If you really want to do something, make a decent pot of coffee,” he finally answered as he pulled a flannel shirt on over his T-shirt.

“I don’t drink coffee.”

“I do, but I’m not good at making it. So, like I said, if you want to be helpful, learn to make coffee.”

“I can do other things, too.”

Like feeding calves. “I’ve got it covered.” Being personable this early was too tough to handle, especially without decent coffee. He’d never admit it to anyone in Brody’s Crossing, but he missed his double-shot latte with the morning paper at the coffee shop near his condo in Fort Worth. He missed Starbucks in the airports when he traveled. Raven York probably thought he was a cowboy through and through, but in the past fifteen years or so, he’d become downright civilized.

“I’ll be back in half an hour,” he said, “then I’m grabbing some breakfast and coffee, and heading out for the morning.”

“Are you going to town?”

“No, the ranch hands will be here by then and we’re going to saddle up and check the fences. It doesn’t take much for the cattle to wander off.”

“Oh, that would be a huge shame,” she said with such deadpan sarcasm that he had to smile, but then he remembered why he had to get blisters on his butt.

“Yeah, until they get onto the highway and walk in front of a school bus full of children.”

“Oh.”

“Right. So, I’m checking fence.”

“I’ll attempt the coffee.”

“I’d appreciate it.”

As soon as the door closed behind Troy, Raven tackled the old metal percolator. Despite what she’d implied, she knew how to make coffee, she just didn’t drink it. As a matter of fact, she’d worked for a short time as a barista in a coffee shop in Manchester during college. Of course, the Crawford ranch didn’t have anything similar to the commercial espresso machine she’d used there. Still, a little cleanliness went a long way, and this percolator was proof that only men had lived here for many years. Now if she could just find some white vinegar and baking soda.

When Troy returned thirty minutes later, Raven poured him a steaming mug of coffee that even she secretly admitted smelled pretty good. Perhaps she’d see about some organic coffee beans…

“Thanks. What’s that smell?” He blew on the steaming mug, smiled, then added, “I mean, it smells great.”

“Almond butter on whole wheat toast, and scrambled eggs with a little goat cheese.”

She watched his smile fade. “Oh. Like I said, it smells…great.”

“It tastes great, too. Come on, be adventurous.”

“I’ve eaten goat cheese before. It’s just not my favorite. Give me a good sharp cheddar every time.”

“I brought this all the way from New Hampshire. I make it on my farm.”

“Okay, but it’s still from goats.”

She rolled her eyes and didn’t try to convince him that her goats produced the best milk, and consequently the best cheese, around.

He washed his hands at the sink while Raven watched his back. His wide shoulders and the muscles along his spine moved beneath the soft shirt, making her wonder what he’d look like without it. Which made her angry at herself for getting distracted by a tight body.

“You’re being awfully nice, cooking breakfast for me,” he commented, his back still to her as he dried his hands.

“I’m a nice person.”

“Even to cattlemen?” he asked as he turned around.

“I’m trying to be, but I’m not going to give up on changing your mind—on changing everyone’s mind—that eating meat is both bad for you and for the animals it destroys.”

“That fact is debatable.”

“Not by me.”

He sat at the table and picked up his fork, looking at the scrambled eggs as if they might suddenly jump up and run off the plate.

“You might as well taste them. The eggs have already sacrificed themselves for your breakfast.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake! These aren’t fertilized eggs. We don’t even have a rooster.”

“It was a joke. Not a very good one, I suppose.”

“Joking about food is obviously not your talent. You do, however, make a good cup of coffee.”

“Why, thank you.”

He took a small bite, chewed, swallowed. Raven watched his jaw and throat move, watched the way the eggs slipped past his well-sculpted lips. She’d never thought eating scrambled eggs could be sexy, but apparently Troy Crawford accomplished that task with little effort.

“Not bad. The goat cheese is a little strong.”

“It has a different flavor to cow’s-milk cheese.”

“Hmm,” he replied, taking a bite of toast. He chewed, swallowed again, then said, “This is pretty tasty.”

“If you eat eggs, milk products, nuts and beans, you can get enough protein.”

“You’re beginning to sound like a vegetarian commercial.”

“It’s what I believe.”

“And I believe that ranching is an important industry in this state. In this country, for that matter.”

“There are other, better uses for land. Some studies show that production of cattle consumes more resources than it generates.”

“You can always find a study to support any theory.”

“Doesn’t it bother you at all?”

“No.”

“But what about those calves? They’re just babies—”

“I knew it! You’re trying to save them.”

She took in a deep breath and brought her chin up. “I’ll save any animal that I can.”

He walked over to the old percolator, refilled his coffee and raised his mug to her. “I’ll consider myself warned.” With that, he started to walk out of the kitchen.

“What are you doing now?”

“I’m going to finish my toast in peace, then e-mail my brother in Afghanistan that instead of the cattle expert he wanted, we’re housing an animal-rights activist who intends to save his cattle from their cruel fate.”

“I’m not an animal-rights activist! I’m a farmer who happens to love animals for something other than food.”

“Right. That will make Cal feel so much better.”

She didn’t want to irritate Troy’s brother while he was away serving in the military, even if he was a cattle rancher in civilian life. “Perhaps you shouldn’t make your brother feel as if his ranch is being taken over by PETA.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. And believe me, you’re not taking over.”

He was right, Raven admitted to herself as he strode into the office and shut the door. She was simply a guest until she found out where she was supposed to be or until Troy Crawford got tired of her opinions and tossed her out. Either way, she’d better come up with a plan.



AFTER USING TROY’S PHONE to call home and check on her animals, Raven took a shower, dressed in a calico skirt and peasant blouse, laced up her canvas sandals and drove into town. Pickles puttered along the two-lane road with predictable coughing on some of the turns. After driving just long enough to wonder if she was lost, Raven came across the town-limits sign, and then in another minute or so, Brody’s Crossing itself. She slowed down to the thirty-mile-an-hour speed limit as she passed a few run-down businesses and small homes, then a neat brick police station. She stopped on the corner at a flashing red light, right next to a bank that looked as if it could have been robbed by Bonnie and Clyde. On the other corners were a drugstore, a café and the town offices.

She drove around the two blocks that made up the downtown, seeing some thriving businesses, such as the beauty shop and café, and some that had obviously been vacant for a long time, like a dress shop and a furniture store. And, near the train tracks, a boarded-up hotel that at one time had probably been very nice.

She drove past some tidy frame houses with gardens out front and picket fences defining the sides and backyards. Then the houses became fewer and the yards bigger, until she was once again in the country. Only a few mobile homes dotted the landscape now, and as Raven pulled off the road to turn around, she had to admit that finding a place to stay in Brody’s Crossing wasn’t going to be easy. If she was staying in town, which she wouldn’t know until she talked to the heritage garden society.

The guest room at the Crawford ranch wasn’t luxurious, but it was available. And free. And there was one perk that couldn’t be duplicated even if she found a room for rent—Troy Crawford’s very distracting body.



TROY STILL DIDN’T HAVE A reply from Cal, so he shut down the computer and leaned back in the desk chair. His brother must be out on patrol or whatever they did during the day now. He tried not to think about how risky life could be in Afghanistan or he’d fret all the time about Cal, who really hadn’t expected to be called up or to be put in danger.

And Troy also had to worry about Raven, at least for a few more days. He didn’t believe she’d do anything to sabotage the herd, but he knew she wanted to “save” them. Couldn’t she understand that those Herefords were bred to be beef cattle and nothing else? That they were well treated, fed, wormed, and kept safe inside those fences that needed constant maintenance?

No, apparently she couldn’t. And he didn’t know how to get her off her soapbox about animal rights. All he wanted to do was look after this hopelessly antiquated ranch for his brother. Cal needed to have a place to come home to, not an eviction notice from the bank.

And Troy needed to know that he’d been the one to salvage the family ranch. Him. Not his father or his brother, but him. And if that was self-serving or arrogant or whatever, he’d just live with it. The old tried-and-true ranching practices were out of date. Maybe the association sending the wrong person was a sign that the time to act was now.

He pushed up from the chair. He’d been out riding fence in the one-hundred-degree heat. He stank and his butt hurt and he’d give one of his aching body parts for a thick, juicy steak and a baked potato. Which brought his thoughts back to his reluctant lodger. Where was she?

He looked in the guest room, kitchen and living room before searching outside. She was probably in the barn, knitting sweaters for the “poor little babies.” If she got attached to those calves, he was going to…well, he didn’t know what he’d do, but he sure as heck wasn’t going to hold her and let her cry all over him when he’d warned her specifically not to get involved. Vulnerable baby animals could break your heart if you let them. She needed to toughen up, but he doubted she ever would.

On a hunch, before trekking to the barn, he checked the front of the house where she’d parked her Yankeemobile. Sure enough, it wasn’t there. However, her canvas tote bag and clothes were still in the bedroom, so she hadn’t left. Good. She was just out running errands or something. Lecturing someone else on the evils of eating meat, no doubt. Winning friends and influencing people. Yep, that was Raven York.

While she was gone and the place was quiet, he took a much-needed shower and shaved, which he did every day whether he was going someplace or not. He had nothing against the scruffy look, although he couldn’t stand the feel of stubble. He hoped Raven wouldn’t think he’d cleaned up just for her. Giving her the wrong impression wouldn’t be good for either of them, especially since she was only here for a few days.

He heard her close the back door just as he was checking his e-mail again. Still no reply from Cal. Maybe by tonight, which would be morning over there. Again he shut down the computer and went looking for Raven. He found her in the kitchen, rearranging things in the refrigerator.

“I wondered if you’d like to go into town to get a bite to eat in a little while,” he asked. “I was kind of hard on you at breakfast, and well, you might find something you’d enjoy on the menu at the local café.”

“Why?”

“I thought it would be nice to get away from the ranch for a while. You know, have dinner. Nothing more. No ulterior motive except to say I’m sorry for being rude. I’m not a morning person by nature and getting up before dawn is a stretch for me. Since I moved back to the ranch, I never had to get up early and be polite at the same time.”

“I’m sorry my presence is so disruptive. I tried to find someplace else to stay, but you were right. There’s nowhere. Believe me, I looked.”

“You want to leave that bad?”

“Well, I know I’m not what you were expecting. I’m sure if the heritage garden people phoned you’d let me know, no matter where I was staying. And I get on your nerves, as you’ve pointed out. I’m not shy about my beliefs.”

“Yeah, I got that.” He ran a hand around his neck. “Look, the truth is, since you arrived, things have been a lot more…interesting. Sometimes it gets kind of boring out here. You might irritate me occasionally, but you’re not boring.”

“Well, thank you very much, I think.”

He breathed a sigh of relief. “You’re welcome. So can we go to dinner? About five o’clock? The café closes early.”



“TROY CRAWFORD! HOW THE heck are you, son?” the booming cowboy asked as he squeezed Troy’s shoulder. They were sitting in one of the booths that lined each long wall of the café. Front windows faced Commerce Street, and the order desk and window to the kitchen made up the fourth side at the very back. Raven had hoped that the café wouldn’t be busy this time of day, but a surprising number of people were here for dinner.

“I’m fine, Bud. How are you?”

“Couldn’t be better, unless beef prices go up and gas prices go down.” The older man chuckled and looked at Raven. “I see you’ve got someone new in town.”

“Raven York, this is Bud Hammer. He’s a rancher.”

Raven extended her hand. “Hello, Mr. Hammer.”

“Just visiting our city boy, hmm?” he said with a knowing grin.

“Just a professional visit to the Crawford ranch,” she replied.

“Professional? What’s the problem, Troy?”

“Nothing serious. Ms. York is a consultant. She’s giving me some new ideas…for crops and feed, mostly.”

That was sort of true, she realized. They’d talked about what plants and products she thought everyone should eat.

“Oh.” Bud winked at Troy. “Whatever you say.”

“This is not a social visit.” Raven fixed her eye on Mr. Hammer. She absolutely would not have anyone thinking she’d come to Texas for a nonprofessional reason, no matter how good-looking Troy Crawford was.

“Quit teasing the young folks,” another older man said, clapping Bud on the back. “Who are you to question someone who’s an expert?”

“That’s right,” his companion, also about retirement age, added. “Troy ought to know what he’s talking about, since he works in the cattle industry.”

“Thanks, Mr. Maxwell. Hello, Rodney.”

“Call me Burl, Troy.”

“I still remember you as Mr. Maxwell, my math teacher. It’s hard to call you by your first name.”

“We’re all in the same boat now, aren’t we?”

“I’m going to get some dinner,” Bud said, “since y’all are having such a happy reunion.”

“Have a nice one,” Troy said, although Raven could tell he wasn’t sorry to see the man go.

“I’m Rodney Bell. My spread is a little west of the Crawford ranch. We’ve been neighbors for years.”

“And as Troy mentioned, I’m Burl Maxwell. I teach math at the high school and sponsor the 4-H Club.”

“Hello, I’m Raven York,” she introduced herself to the two men. “I’m pleased to meet you.”

The men smiled. They seemed genuinely nice. “How are you enjoying your visit to Brody’s Crossing?” Rodney asked.

“It’s very…different than New Hampshire,” she answered with a smile. “Troy has been a gracious host.”

“Cal asked me to get a consultant out to the ranch,” Troy explained. “Raven got sent here by mistake, but we’re making the best of it until we get the mix-up fixed. She’s trying to reform my wicked cattleman ways, and I’m trying to keep her from running off with all the calves.”

Both men laughed, but Raven felt surprise that Troy had divulged so much to them. And a little annoyed that he’d made her seem so very different. So odd.

“I specialize in heritage gardens,” she explained.

“That’s great,” Burl Maxwell said. “Too many of the old plants are being lost to modern hybrids and genetically engineered varieties. There’s a real art in traditional methods of cross-pollination and grafting.”

“Exactly! I’m so glad to find someone who shares my enthusiasm.”

She could practically feel Troy roll his eyes, but even Rodney Bell didn’t seem put off by her passion for plants.

“I remember back in the day,” he said, “the Crawford place had quite a vegetable garden, plus there were some climbing roses. You know, those little pink ones that have quite a smell?”

“Probably a floribunda,” Raven commented.

“Troy’s mother tried her best to keep it going, but you know, after…”

“Then she was gone, and I imagine the garden was completely lost,” Troy said, his tone flat.

Raven turned to look at him. His jaw seemed tight and his shoulders tense. What was the story with his mother?

“Well, we’d best get some dinner, too,” Burl said, breaking the uncomfortable silence.

“You’re welcome to join us,” Troy said.

“Thanks, but we’ll let you young people talk.”

“I’d value your opinion on some of my ideas for the ranch,” he said. “If not now, then how about coffee in a day or two?”

“It’d have to be after school,” Burl said.

“Throw in some pie and you have a deal,” Rodney added.

“Tuesday, then? Around four o’clock?”

“Sounds good to me.”

“See you then.”

The two men smiled and went back to another booth. They didn’t join Bud Hammer, Raven noticed.

“Nice guys,” she commented.

“Good neighbors, too. Maybe I’ll get some ideas from them, just in case the ranching expert doesn’t show.”

“That might be a better option anyway, since they know the area.”

“You’d think that, but it’s not what Cal wanted.”

“Do you have to do it Cal’s way?”

“Cal’s way or the highway,” Troy scoffed. “I shouldn’t be mean-spirited about this, but Cal is hell-bent on keeping our father’s traditions, down to the last, ill-conceived detail. The ranch is struggling, but all he cares about is having things the same as they’ve always been.”

“It must be frustrating for you.”

“Believe me, it’s beyond frustrating. Do I upset my brother while he’s dodging land mines and snipers in Afghanistan, or do I contribute to the failure of our family ranch?”

“You have to do what you feel is right.”

“Easy to say, not so easy to do.”

“If it were easy, he would have done it already.”

“Nothing is simple when it comes to my family.” He opened the menu, cutting off the conversation. “I think you’ll find something here to eat. They have some pretty good vegetables and a decent salad.”

“I’m sure I’ll be fine.” But as she looked at her menu, she wondered if Troy would find some solution he could swallow when it came to the ranch.




Chapter Four


As Monday’s bright, hot sun sank lower in the cloudless sky, Troy had to admit that Raven was a hard worker. He’d assumed she might want to sit around the house and knit all day, but instead, she’d tackled housekeeping chores when she wasn’t helping him in the barn or exploring the property.

When he’d asked her why she was cleaning his house when she was a guest, she explained that she felt she should earn her keep since she wasn’t the consultant he’d been expecting. He’d insisted that wasn’t necessary, but she’d wanted to help, and he hated housework so much that he let her.

He’d done his best to keep her away from the calves, but he was pretty sure she snuck out there whenever he or the ranch hands weren’t around. He’d spent much of the weekend on his horse, checking the two wells farthest from the barn. Windmills pumped water up into rock troughs, but sometimes the old plumbing failed, or the cogs broke. That’s the kind of thing that happened with ancient equipment—not that Cal would think of replacing the fifty-year-old machinery.

Wincing from his time in the saddle, he dismounted outside the barn. Before he could catalog all his aches and pains, Raven stuck her head out of the barn door. “Oh, you’re back. I was just wondering if I should fix dinner.”

“What were you planning on making?” he asked carefully. He’d learned to be…reserved around her food after she’d explained what she’d brought with her from New Hampshire. He’d seen a couple of the meals and several snacks she’d made for herself. They seemed more like rabbit than people food, and much of it smelled like old goat.

“A vegetable pasta that’s really quite tasty. I found some organic tomatoes in town today and I thought I’d serve those with a balsamic vinaigrette.”

“No goat cheese?”

“Not unless you want some.”

“I’d rather not.” He’d eaten goat cheese in several high-end restaurants, but he hadn’t liked it any better there than in Raven York’s scrambled eggs.

“That’s okay. So, I’ll head on in and get supper started.”

“Sure,” he answered, pushing his reservations about dinner aside as he led his gelding into the barn. At the end of the long day, the horse seemed to have more energy than he did. Or maybe it was worry that was bringing him down.

He still hadn’t heard from Cal, and even though it was Monday, the ranch association hadn’t contacted him on his cell phone. Of course, someone could have left a message at the house. He’d check that as soon as he got inside. He wanted all these unresolved issues put to rest as soon as possible. Unfortunately, he still didn’t know how to save the ranch.

He stretched his back, shrugged his shoulders high and rotated his neck to get the kinks out. His damp shirt pulled and clung to him as he rolled each shoulder, relieving the tension and the hours in the saddle.

Raven stood just inside the door, watching him.

“Is something wrong?” he asked.

“No! I just…I’m going in right now.”

She turned and hurried off, her plain skirt swirling around her legs and her long curly hair blowing in the breeze. She gathered the mass into her hand, twisted it and draped it over her shoulder.

She sure had a lot of hair. He wondered if it was soft to the touch—as soft as the breeze that blew over the top of the hill even on the hottest day. Or was it wiry and strong, much as he supposed Raven was?

And why was he standing here wondering about her hair anyway? He should be taking the tack off his horse, turning him out, getting a shower and thinking about dinner. But no, he was calf-eyed over his temporary houseguest.

A few minutes later, he entered the kitchen and placed his boots next to the back door, just as his brother and father had done every day of their lives on this ranch. The kitchen was filled with good smells for once—pasta sauce and tomatoes and balsamic vinegar. He could go for that type of dinner, even if it wasn’t served with a twelve-ounce T-bone.

He wondered if Raven could whip up a cheesecake for dessert. Probably not. She didn’t seem to like sweets or normal milk products, so sugar and cream cheese probably hadn’t found their way into his kitchen.

“I’m going to hit the shower after I check the answering machine to see if we got any messages. Thanks for making dinner. When will it be ready?”

“About fifteen to twenty minutes,” she answered, looking over her shoulder from the stove. She gave him a quick glance.

He probably looked a sight in his scruffy jeans and long-sleeve shirt, his feet in white tube socks that had seen better days.

“What would you like to drink?”

“I’ll grab a beer after my shower.”

Raven watched Troy walk out of the kitchen, his damp shirt clinging to his wide back, the pockets of his soft, worn jeans moving against his tight butt. She’d never seen a man who looked so good after working hard all day.

And now he was going into the bathroom to get naked.

Just then, her pot of water boiled over, sending sizzles and sputters and steam all over the stove. She snapped out of her fantasy about her host to move the pot to an empty burner and grab a towel. How ridiculous to be influenced by an attractive body, she chastised herself as she mopped up the mess. A strong back didn’t indicate a strong character, just as a pretty face didn’t mean a person had a beautiful soul.




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