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A Cowboy For Clementine
Susan Floyd
Clem Wells has made a career out of screwing upFirst she quit school to get married. Then she spent years being the perfect corporate wife–only to get dumped. Finally she went home to manage her family's ranch, figuring even she couldn't wreck a smoothly running operation. But she'd saved the worst for last.Who would've guessed that those sweet little cows she'd put out to pasture would turn into feral beasts that refused to be rounded up? Simple math said 0 cows = $0. And $0 meant her family's ranch was in jeopardy.What Clementine needed now was a miracle. Hard to believe that a miracle would take the form of Dexter Scott. But if a silent, ornery and stubborn cowboy was all that was available, then she'd take what she could get.


Enormous, renegade cows were roaming around Clem’s ranch, trampling the land, hiding in crevasses, growing healthier, heavier and more territorial with each passing day. Clem had kicked herself a thousand times for not dong better research before buying the cows. Not that it mattered. She was stuck with them now. She’d had five freelance outfits look at the cows. Each and every one had refused to take on the job of rounding them up. Finally she begged the last outfit for a name. There had to be someone who could help her.
The cowboys exchanged glances. One shrugged and another kicked at the dust. Then a third said, “Ma’am, just take your losses and get a real job.”
Clem could have laughed at the irony. This was the only job she was qualified for. She glared at them. “Tell me who can help me.”
The tall one eventually said, “Can’t vouch for him. He and his partners did some jail time. Even if you could find him, he won’t help.”
“Why not?” Clem’s voice was curt.
“Retired.”
“Give me his name,” she’d begged. She wasn’t going to let an itty-bitty complication like retirement get in her way.
With a sigh, the cowboy told her. “Dexter Scott. Trust me, ma’am. You’d be better off if you didn’t find him.”
He was probably right, but Clem had two choices—work with Dexter Scott or lose her family’s ranch.
Dear Reader,
When starting this book, I was plagued by doubts. After all, what would a suburban girl like me know about cowboys and feral cows? However, as I searched the deeper recesses of my mind, I realized that during the late seventies while I was swallowing ten to fifteen Harlequin novels a week, I was also drinking generous doses of good old-fashioned Westerns.
It was not the guns or the intrigues that drew me to those rough-and-tumble books of the West, but the lonely, isolated men who were so often reluctant heroes. In my mind, I always added a heroine for the hero, the one person who could unlock the gates to a cowboy’s heart and soul.
Dexter Scott is a man with many gates, some locked, some not. But they all serve the same purpose—self-protection. When Clementine Wells manages to get through every gate he has, Dexter realizes that love eliminates the need for gates.
Please join my recalcitrant hero and determined heroine as they discover that independence is not a good reason to miss out on love. And that sometimes, there’s greater independence in a loving relationship and only pressing loneliness without it.
Sincerely,
Susan Floyd
P.S. I love to hear from my readers. You can reach me at: P.O. Box 2883, Los Banos, CA 93635 or via e-mail on my author’s page at www.superauthors.com.

A Cowboy for Clementine
Susan Floyd

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
I want to express my deep appreciation
to the entire Menefee family.
Colleen and Jerry, your generosity made this book
what it is. Scott and Chu’an (and little Kate, in utero)
thank you for the evening of feral cow viewing
and my first taste of venison jerky.
Jacob, may your Shuckabur live on always.
And special thanks to Anne and Jack Newins,
facilitators extraordinaire (even though I couldn’t
make the hero Ishmael).
This book is dedicated to my mother,
June Ishimatsu Kimoto
who in the last year has proven to be one of
the most courageous women I know. Thank you, Mom.

CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN

PROLOGUE
Los Banos, California, late January
CLEMENTINE WELLS STOPPED her horse, Archie, on a steep slope and stared straight ahead, trying to peer through the brush that covered most of the pastureland on her family’s 16,000-acre ranch. She thought she was mistaken, that she was seeing some kind of mirage.
She had known that she’d been duped, known that the man who’d sold her all the calves at a greatly reduced price saw inexperience tattooed across her forehead. She’d felt like a monster, branding those little calves with just nubbins of horns on their heads. Nothing big enough to even trim. Some of them had looked as if they’d been snatched from their mothers a mite too soon. She’d worried all through November she’d been sold runts that would be devoured by the cougars or would die in the cold. So she’d spent much of her time watching them, riding up to check on their progress and their growth. When her parents had come for Christmas, her father’d been impressed. He’d clasped his big hand on her shoulder and squeezed, telling her she’d done a good job, and she’d basked in the glow of his praise.
Her parents had left two days ago, and she’d ridden into the mountains today to check again. At first, her fears had seemed confirmed. The cows weren’t where they were supposed to be at this time of year. She’d trailed endless paths hoping that at least a few had survived the December storms that usually brought them in closer to the ranch. Now, as she spotted the cow she and her dogs had spent the past half hour tracking, she realized she’d been worried for nothing.
The cow had taken them on quite a trek, and, with a surge of triumph, Clem saw that it had led her to a shallow valley where there were others, the Wells family brand prominent on their rumps. Clem smiled with relief. These cows weren’t lost or dead. And the growth of these runts was very encouraging. It looked as if the joke was on the man who’d sold her the calves so cheaply. Why, if they continued to graze and grow at the rate they were, they’d be close to eight hundred pounds by April.
Elation ran through her and Clem allowed herself to smile. Her mother had been right. She was capable. Being taken care of first by her father and then her ex-husband hadn’t ruined her for life. She was able to stand on her own feet, admittedly with some help. But this was her herd, these were her cows. Finally, she’d done something in her thirty-two years of living that would actually pay off.
Archie whinnied and Clem looked around to see she wasn’t the only thing following the cow. Behind her was another one, wearing her brand, staring at her. Clem felt a little uneasy. Cows were prey animals. They wouldn’t venture so close. In fact, as a rule, they skittered away when something threatening approached.
This cow appeared neither threatened nor skittish. Instead, it shook its head before lowering it and pointing its horns at Clem.
Impossible. Clem thought with a laugh. Cows weren’t aggressive, though this one sure looked like—
The cow charged.
Archie stepped backward, and with her voice stuck in her throat and her heart pounding in her ears, Clementine Wells did what all good cowboys did in such a situation.
She ran.
She wheeled Archie out of the way and let him go, calling to her dogs at the same time. She could hear the sound of hooves pounding behind her, but was too afraid to look. Suddenly, Clem realized that for months she’d been worried about the wrong thing. Her cows were thriving in the Diablo mountain range. In the spring they’d be worth hundreds of thousands of dollars. But cows only made money after they were rounded up and brought to market. At the best of times, with the gentlest of cows, roundups were hard. These cows were feral, getting them out of the mountains was going to be a nightmare.

CHAPTER ONE
Somewhere northeast of Barstow, California
KEEP OUT. Trespassers Will Be Shot.
Clementine Wells stared at the sign on the twenty-foot barbed-wire tension gate, and craned her neck, looking for any sign of a house, any sign of someone about to shoot her. This was where she’d find the one man who could help her? She was tempted to just turn around, drive the ten hours back home and call her father to tell him he was right. She had no business trying to be a rancher. It was mid-September, and she still hadn’t been able to round up her herd.
She climbed back into the truck, shoved it into reverse, then stopped, fighting the fatigue of driving. She could see her mother as she’d looked more than a year ago.
“You can do it, Clementine.”
“I don’t know, Mom,” Clem had hedged. “It’s different running a ranch than working on it. I haven’t done this kind of physical labor since…since before I went to college.”
Before I married Nick went unsaid. Her mother hadn’t approved of the marriage, hadn’t approved of the fact that Clem had quit college in her junior year to follow Nick to San Jose, where they’d become wealthy overnight, riding the early dot.com wave. Until the divorce last year, Clem had not worked a full-time job in her entire adult life.
“Your father is a good man,” her mother had told her. “But he’s done too much for you. You need to know you can stand on your own two feet. Without us.”
“But the ranch?” Clem had never even envisioned herself taking over the ranch. “I’m not sure I’d even know where to start.”
“You’ve done every chore this ranch requires. You have a good mind. City people buy ranches all the time. Besides, if your father doesn’t take to retirement, we can come back, if you’re here.”
Claire Wells made it seem so simple.
Jim Wells, however, wasn’t as enthusiastic.
“The ranching business has changed, sweetheart,” her father had said as they rode out to watch the sunset. “I’m not sure you’re up to it. It’s not the world you knew growing up.”
Until that moment, Clem hadn’t thought she was up to it, either, but the doubt and concern in her father’s voice made her stop Archie.
“Not that I think you can’t do it,” Jim Wells had added, staring straight ahead.
“Mom thinks I can.” Clem hadn’t wanted her voice to sound so unsure. She’d realized at that moment, she wanted her father to think she could do it, too. “I can always call you for advice.”
Her father had been silent, then cleared his throat and said, “Your mother has always wanted you to be independent.”
“And now that I am?” She hadn’t felt independent. Ask her to arrange a dinner party for ten and she could do it. Ask her what she wanted to do with the rest of her life and she felt as uncertain as she had when she was nineteen.
“You know, honey, you can always come to Arizona with us, just until you figure out what you want to do with your life. The new house has an extra bedroom.”
Clem had swallowed. That would be even more humiliating. “If I ran the ranch for the next year or so, you could always come back if you find that retirement doesn’t agree with you.”
Her father started walking his horse again. “Honey, for the record, I don’t think there is such a thing as going back. It’s all about moving forward.”
It’s all about moving forward. Clementine got back out of the truck and studied the sign again, trying to make up her mind. She was the kind of person who obeyed signs. If a sign on a rest room door read Employees Only, she wouldn’t go through it, even if she’d just had a Big Gulp. She’d walk all the way around the mall to find a public rest room.
The man behind that fence was the only person who could protect her parents’ retirement. She’d spent a good portion of their money and her own, and now she didn’t think even her father could do anything that would solve this problem. It had grown—for lack of a better term—larger than even he could handle.
Ignoring the sign, she stuck out a tentative hand and rattled the gate. Yep. It was tight. She leaned over to the side to see what kind of latch it had. Just a rusty nail soldered to the chain. With gentle fingers, she tugged on the nail. It stuck. She tugged a little harder. Then it slid out and the gate sagged to the ground. She couldn’t even see the warning that trespassers would be shot anymore. She stepped over the gate and waited for a maniac to charge her with a shotgun. But nothing happened. There was just the stillness of the desert, the unending road in front of her.
Dexter Scott might be a recluse, but she didn’t believe he was a maniac. She’d done a lot of research on the man, searching for him ever since she’d heard his name. He’d been in jail for a couple of barroom fights, but there’d been nothing about him shooting defenseless women. She dragged the gate to the side of the road and, with a deep breath, got back in her truck and drove through.
It didn’t take her long to figure out how to put the gate back up. So with the rusty nail in place, Clem drove on, aware of the peaceful red desert that surrounded her. The way she figured it, if she came upon a gate she didn’t know how to unlatch, she’d take that as a sign and turn right around. But each gate, though different, was workable. As she drove past her fourth gate, she understood for the first time why the heroines in Alfred Hitchcock movies always looked in the closet.
Feeling bolder, Clementine inspected the last gate. This one was padlocked. She could justify opening gates that weren’t locked, but even if she had the skills to pick locks, she wasn’t sure she could ignore this sign. It’d be easy enough to turn around. No one had even detected her presence.
But she could see a tiny speck of a house maybe a mile in the distance. So close and yet so far. She leaned against the gate, solidly built out of steel slats, and considered her options. She could go home to the same problem that she hadn’t been able to solve or she could be brave and ask this man to help her. She put her foot in one slat. She looked around. This gate would be easy enough to scale. She could walk that mile to the house. If anything, being on foot would make her appear less threatening. With a deep breath, she buttoned up her jeans jacket and started to climb. If Dexter Scott asked, she’d say she ran out of gas. Maybe he’d give her a ride back to the truck and then she’d be able to make her request.
As she straddled the top of the fence, she stopped and listened. What was that sound? Hoofbeats? Panic overwhelmed her, as she swung her trailing leg over and tried to get her balance. No doubt about it, those were hoofbeats behind her—right behind her. She could hear a horse snort. She froze. She was in the middle of nowhere and she was going to be shot. He could bury her body anywhere and no one would ever find her.
But she didn’t hear a “Halt, who goes there,” or anything else, just the panting of a horse. She didn’t dare look over her shoulder, too chicken to stare down the barrel of a twelve-gauge shotgun. So this was how it ended. She decided that she wanted to die on the ground. Back still toward the rider, she jumped down.
When the rider didn’t speak, Clem held up her arms to show she was unarmed. She swallowed hard and blurted over her shoulder, “I know I’m not supposed to be here, but I really need your help.”
No answer, just the agitated prancing of hooves.
“I’m harmless, really. Just let me explain.” Her mind was churning. Every fifteen minutes during her long drive it had occurred to her that there was no good reason in the world that this cowboy, this complete stranger would help her. But always, she’d gone forward.
With her breath held, Clementine willed her body into a slow rotation. At least she should see the face of the man who was going to shoot her, look in his eyes and appear brave. She backed up a step, bumping into the gate behind her.
Then she laughed, mostly with relief and a little hysteria.
“Well, well, well,” Clem said, addressing the beautiful brown horse. “Where did you come from?”
The she looked at the empty saddle on the horse’s back and asked, “And where is your rider?”

SPITTING DUST. The only thing Dexter Scott hated worse than spitting dust was walking, and thanks to his newest horse, he was doing just that. He searched for the gelding. Tall, ornery, milk-chocolate with a white star between his eyes. There was nothing fitting that description within sight. Dex slapped the seat of his jeans, ignoring the billow of fine, red desert dirt, then slowly tested his shoulder. Pain shot through his rotator cuff, but he continued to flex the joint. The stabbing subsided slightly, which meant it wasn’t dislocated again.
Thank God for that.
Spitting dust and walking was bad enough; another dislocation would turn the beautiful morning into a darn right ugly day. Now, where the hell was his hat? His eyes looked for it. And where the hell were Randy and Ryan? They said they’d be right behind him.
More than likely, they’d gone right back to their bunks. It was their off season. The Miller twins had just come off a torturous three-month chase that had taken its toll. Last night, as they sat in the living room of the old Victorian that Dexter’s Uncle Grubb had left him and his sister, Joanna, telling him stories about the job, Dexter couldn’t tell whether or not he missed the life. Ten years of chasing cows had been enough. Still, he’d had to fight down the twinges of envy as Randy and Ryan had embellished their exploits.
Five years ago, he’d have been right in the mix, they’d all been in the mix—Joanna, Randy, Ryan, Ben and Jody Thorton and their son, Mike. But nothing stayed the same. Nothing. Joanna was dead. Ben and Jody had gotten a divorce after Jody’d taken Mike and moved out. Ben had quit the life, just so he could have a shot at joint custody. Randy and Ryan had moved on to other jobs. And Dexter had just stayed put. The days after they’d buried Joanna had somehow slipped into months, months into years. He hadn’t realized what a hermit he’d become until Randy’s flamingo-pink truck had rattled down his deserted road, dust blowing behind the rear tires.
Dexter had spent most of the past three years building up a stable of horses, training them to track and hold wild cows. Part of his success had come from his ability to buy low and sell high. He spent a lot of time scouring the western states, looking for good stock considered “unsalvageable,” ruined by inexperience or plain abuse. To Dexter Scott, no horse was unsalvageable.
Take for example this new horse. He’d driven to Nevada to purchase him after getting a tip off the Internet. Even neglected and underweight, this horse had been magnificent—energetic, alive in ways Dexter would never be again. The horse held promise, perfect for a cowboy who needed a good work horse and who understood the symbiotic relationship between man and beast—if, of course, the horse ever learned to accept a rider for any length of time.
Dexter frowned as he swiveled his arm again, trying to keep it from stiffening up. New Horse, as Randy referred to him, had shown a lot of progress in the past two months. He’d gained weight, and his dull coat was starting to turn glossy. He’d actually nickered in greeting when Dex had arrived this morning, politely accepting the carrot chunk he’d offered. This had prompted Dexter to saddle him up. When the horse carried the saddle in circles around the corral, following Dexter wherever he went, Dexter took this as a good sign. The next step was to get on. And surprise of surprise, New Horse allowed that and even responded properly to the pressure applied to his ribs. Dexter was feeling pretty good about his student as a glorious dawn broke over the desert.
But once out of the safety of the corral, with miles of dry foothills around him, New Horse got a big fat F in deportment. Dex spat out some gravel-like chunks and then ran his tongue over his teeth, hoping that wasn’t actually a filling or worse, part of a tooth. He hated dental work more than he hated walking. His jaw ached, but he supposed that was because New Horse had just sent him tumbling head over ass.
Damn. The desert was still. Dex found himself a rock and sat on it as his tongue continued its exploration around his teeth, carefully probing for any sharp, stabbing pain. So far, his teeth were the only intact parts of his body. He rubbed the bridge of his nose. It’d been broken more times than he could remember. His ribs had been cracked an equal number of times, his leg broken in two places twice. Fractured bones were part of the job description. But this was the first tumble he’d taken since before Joanna’s accid—since before he’d retired.
Dexter shook off the onslaught of feelings that he hadn’t invited and didn’t want to stay. He thought instead of the Miller brothers, who were a party in and of themselves. They radiated fun and irreverence—Randy, the elder brother by four and a half minutes, especially.
Randy’s heart was as big as his voice. Dexter still could hear Ryan’s laughter last night as he defended himself from Randy’s mock attacks with his malletlike fists. How long had it been since they’d all laughed like that? Afterward Randy had brought out his sketches. He suffered—although he would never use that word—from a rare form of color blindness, causing him to see the world in shades of gray. It was that very disability that made him so effective when chasing cows, because he looked for movement and shape, not color.
The color blindness also enabled him to produce the most compelling western art Dexter had ever seen. Randy could bench-press three hundred pounds, but then sketch in pen and ink the most delicate, heartrending portraits of cowboy life. Even though his artwork supported his lifestyle, Randy considered himself a dabbler, not an artist.
The sketches had made Dexter miss the life. They made him think there was much more to living than this desert. He stared in the direction of the main house. It was a heck of a long walk back. Up the small brown hills that obscured his vision of the ranch and down through the pass. Not a bit of water to be found. He flexed his shoulders, trying to ignore the pain that stabbed at his collarbone.
He gazed down at the brown dust on his boots, the heels worn down as were his spurs. They’d been silver at one time, but now had the dull look of well-used stainless steel. Suddenly, familiar hoofbeats made him perk up. New Horse had come to his senses and returned! Dex watched the distant cloud of dust advance. He knew that the horse had it in him. With training New Horse would become one of his best—
Who the hell was riding him?
The fine hairs on the back of his neck prickled as Dex watched the horse that threw him not an hour ago approach, the legs of his rider dangling on either sides. The brown horse remained steady in his trot, his mane glittering in the sunlight, unperturbed by the flapping stirrups.
Dexter swallowed hard.
This rider rode well, the skill apparent as New Horse slid down some crumbling red slate. How many times had he seen Joanna ride and skid only to recover and laugh at what she called a “cheap thrill”? The rider held herself in the same way, had the same tilt of the head. Impossible. He’d watched Randy pull Joanna’s lifeless body out from under her horse. He’d touched her ice-cold hand.
The rider slowed so they wouldn’t spray Dexter with dust and gravel. Dexter squinted up, from his rock unwilling to look into the face of the rider, unwilling to take the chance that it might be Joanna.
“Hey” was the best greeting he could muster.
“Lost your hat?” the rider asked, her voice clear and feminine.

“I THINK THIS IS YOURS.” Clementine Wells offered the cowboy the sweat-stained gray hat she’d picked up along the trail. When she’d seen the empty saddle, she’d known there was either an angry or a dead cowboy out there somewhere. It was okay if he was angry, but it would do her no good if the man she’d spent more than a month searching for had managed to kill himself before he could help her.
So she had mounted the brown horse and followed the horse’s tracks. When she’d found the hat, she’d felt a little better. She’d have something to give him. Two things. His horse and his hat. Surely, he would help her. Now she held out the hat even farther. His long arm reached up and he grimaced as his tanned fingers curled around the worn felt. He settled it on his head and looked significantly better.
Clem peered down and doubt flooded through her. If this was Dexter Scott, he was dusty and younger than she’d thought he’d be. Too young for retirement, too young to be as good as the grapevine said he was. Dark eyebrows arched up, framing hazel eyes that were as clear as a still lake at sunrise. Those eyes weren’t dusty at all. And Clementine found herself staring into them, as if she were staring into the lake, watching flecks of gold sparkle along the water’s edge.
Even though she had a feeling she was talking to him, she shifted in the saddle and said, “I’m looking for Dexter Scott.”
“How’d you get in here?” His voice was gravelly, as if he hadn’t spoken in a very long time. The horse she was riding skittered from side to side, and the cowboy stilled the horse by tugging the reins out of her hands. He did look menacing, his eyebrows coming together in a scowl, his mouth tight.
“Are you Dexter Scott?”
“How did you get in?” Each word was marked by a short staccato. He muffled a groan as he stood up.
“On the road.” Clem repeated. She hated that he had the reins. It made her feel as if she was being held. And she was, by his eyes, by his angry stance.
He didn’t say anything for a long time, his eyes flicking over her, running a lie detector test. Then he shook his head. “Gates are locked.”
Nerves made her laugh. “Not if you know how to get through or climb over.”
“You shut them?”
Clem bristled. Even she knew not to leave gates open. “Of course.”
“I could shoot you, you know. Didn’t you read the sign?”
“You could,” Clem agreed, but patted the shotgun on the saddle in front of her. “If you had your horse, which you don’t. It seems as if I do.”
It occurred to Clem she shouldn’t antagonize this man, so she fished out a tattered brochure from her back pocket and proceeded to read.
“This says you’re an elite cowboy. A cowboy’s cowboy,” she said for emphasis. She stared at him doubtfully. He appeared anything but elite. Knowing that he’d fallen off his horse didn’t give any credence to the brochure.
“Not anymore.” He rubbed the nose of the horse, and moved to stand right next to her leg. “Retired.”
God, he was tall. No wonder the stirrups hung so low. Clem refused to be put off by the definitive bleakness in his voice. She had more than six hundred feral cows roaming around on her father’s ranch. Laboring all through spring and most of the summer, Clem and a crew of six transient cowboys had tried to round them up. Tried was the operative word. Oh, everyone had theories as to why the cows were so hard to catch. Difficult breed. Large size. Formidable horn growth. She had hoped that when the feed in the hills had dried up in the summer heat, these cows would want to come down and graze on her green pastures, but those freaks of nature seemed to find their own feed higher up the mountain range. The more she tracked them, the more impossible the task became, not just because of the rocky terrain but also because each seemed to be larger and more fierce than any cow she’d ever encountered. She’d thought she was purchasing a Charolais-Hereford cross, a hardy, disease-resistant hybrid that could grow to a thousand pounds in a season. She was wrong.
In desperation, she’d had five separate outfits come to the ranch, spy a couple of the cattle, then turn away, saying that it wasn’t worth the money to break their necks in such inhospitable terrain. In each case, the final edicts had been that if she really wanted to solve her problem, the cows needed to be destroyed, especially the bigger ones with horn spreads of nearly six feet. That wasn’t an option to Clem.
Dead cows fetched no money at market, and if she could only get those suckers to market, they’d be rich.
“You should’ve chosen something a little tamer, smaller,” the leader of the first outfit had remarked as he’d climbed back into his beat-up truck.
“Maybe they’re Charolais, got the coloring,” a man in the second had said. “But can’t see no Hereford in them. Maybe longhorn.”
“Gotta have some Brahman. Look at how mean they is,” a third had offered with a shrug.
“Man, look at that horn spread. Think you could have a strain of Belgian Blues.” A member of the fourth had shaken his head in awe. “It’s gold if you don’t mind dying while mining it.”
When the last outfit went, Clem was still left with enormous, renegade cows trampling the land, hiding in the crevasses, growing healthier, heavier and more territorial with each passing day, as disease resistant as the man who’d sold them to her had assured her. Clem had kicked herself a thousand times for not asking about temperament. She’d only seen the potential dollar signs. A swelling sense of pride that maybe this was something that she could do hadn’t helped. Maybe her mother’s faith wasn’t misplaced—no matter what her father thought, no matter what she thought.
It seemed she’d waited a long time to hear her father praise her for something that she’d done. For years, she just had to walk into the room and her father would light up. Somewhere along the way as Daddy’s little girl, she’d learned that she didn’t have to do, anything, simply being was enough. It was a hard lesson to unlearn since she’d gone from the adoration of her father to the adoration of her husband. Claire Wells had tried to warn Clem, tried to get her to realize that she had to rely on herself, but Clem hadn’t listened. She’d gone ahead and married Nick rather than finish college.
Clem understood intellectually what her mother was saying, but she’d liked the fact that Nick loved her the way her father did. It felt right to Clem. Nick had done an exceptional job of taking her father’s place until he decided to leave her for his colleague. Devastation couldn’t begin to describe her feelings. Suddenly, at thirty-two, she faced difficulties that most people dealt with at eighteen. How to live alone, how to be alone.
But with her mother’s help, she realized that there were things she could do. She knew horses. While Nick had been having his affair, she’d been at the stable with Archie, a beautiful chestnut that Nick had given her for their sixth anniversary. She also knew how to rope and brand. But apparently, not how to choose a herd.
“So tell me who’d help me,” she had finally asked. “There’s got to be someone.”
The cowboys she’d found had exchanged glances. One shrugged and another kicked at the dust.
“There is someone,” Clem had said with hope.
“Yep.”
“But, ma’am, you just might want to shoot these, take your losses and get a real job.”
Clem could have laughed at the irony of it all. This was the only real job she was qualified for.
“I have a real job.” Clem had glared at them. “Tell me who can help me.”
A long silence followed while the cowboys eyed each other.
One finally asked the other, “Where’d we last see him?”
“El Paso.”
“He was scouting those crazy horses of his.”
“Ben Thorton still with him?”
“Nope. Heard they split up after…you know. Those Miller brothers, too.”
“Who?” Clem asked again. “Give me a name.”
“Can’t vouch for him.”
“Craziest son of a— Oops, sorry, ma’am.”
“Didn’t they single-handedly clear out the old Russell Saloon?”
“Did some jail time.”
The oldest man shook his head. “I’d feel bad if something happened to you, ma’am. Even if you could find him, he won’t help.”
“Why not?” Clem had asked, her voice curt.
“Retired.”
“Give me his name,” Clem had begged. If he was alive, he could help her. She wasn’t going to let an itty-bitty complication like retirement get in her way.
With a sigh, he said, “Scott. Dexter Scott. Trust me, ma’am, you’d be better off if you didn’t find him.”
Dexter Scott.
Clem had burned that name into her mind. She’d scoured old copies of Western Horseman, looking for something, anything about him, a mention in an article, a small ad. Ben Thorton and the Miller brothers, too. Tracking one of them could lead her to him. She went on the Internet to the different ranching Web sites. Posted on message boards, sought information during chats.
Finally, some kind soul sent her a brochure, an old tattered brochure. Clem had treated it like a map to buried treasure, carefully taping the folds intact. And when she discovered the phone number was out of service, she’d used a magnifying glass to read the faded address. The next evening, last night, in fact, she’d driven off in search of Dexter Scott, the legend.
He didn’t look much like a legend, not with that frown. Clem cleared her throat. “Um, have you ever considered coming out of retirement?”
“Nope.” The answer was matter-of-fact, given with a disinterested glance in her direction.
That answer was unacceptable.
Clem stared at the man who was stroking the nose of the horse. Whether he knew it or not, her fate was in his hands. And she wasn’t going to lose six hundred cattle worth at least a thousand dollars apiece. She could, however, give up forty percent of what they would bring in. It was an enormous amount of money. With her cut, she could pay off her debts and still make enough to buy the most sedate herd of Herefords she could find.
“I’m sorry, I can’t take no for an answer.” Her voice came out a little weaker than she’d planned. Where was the authority that her father talked with? She sounded like she was asking for permission.
The cowboy’s lips twisted into what she thought was a smile, but since the brim of his hat shaded his face, she couldn’t quite tell. “You’ll have to.”
He gave the horse a final pat on the nose, before saying, “Skooch.” The horse lurched underneath her as, in almost one motion, he pulled himself up behind her and then lifted her up and deposited her snugly between his lap and the horn of the well-used saddle. A warm forearm wrapped around her rib cage. As he took the reins from her hand. With just a touch of his heels, he turned the horse and urged it into a trot back in the direction of the ranch.
Clem was too astonished to protest.
Not that she could protest even if she wanted to. Her body was already cinched to his lean frame, his chest pressed flat against her spine, and while he had pulled back in the saddle to give her as much room as he could, it was a tight squeeze.
She held her breath as the horse danced underneath them, not at all certain he liked this newest burden. She felt the man behind her squeeze the ribs of the horse to establish control.
“Relax, you’ll be more comfortable.” His voice was polite. “Break fewer bones if we get tossed.”
“Okay.” But her breath just didn’t want to let go.
They rode in silence for a cautious few minutes. Clem knew he was testing the horse, seeing if it was willing to take them home. When the horse didn’t protest, she felt the cowboy settle down behind her.
“So explain again how you got in?” His voice rumbled from deep within his chest, and Clem could feel it reverberate against her back.
“I just went through the gates,” she said, trying not to sound as defensive as she felt.
“They’re locked.”
“They’re latched,” she corrected him. “Only the last one was locked.”
“And?”
“I climbed over. Left my truck there.”
“How’d you find the horse?”
“He found me on top of the gate.”
That seemed to be enough of an explanation because he was silent.
After another hundred yards, he demanded, “So what is it you want from me?”
“I want you to be as good as your brochure says you are.”
She didn’t know what she expected in response to her outburst, but a deep chuckle wasn’t it.
“Nobody’s as good as brochures says they are. They’re brochures.”
Clem’s stomach knotted up. “I need you to be.”
“I’m retired.”
There was something in his voice, some sort of odd quality that made her not want to believe him. His forearm tightened around her ribs and Clem swallowed her protest. He may think he was retired, but there was some ember in his hazel eyes not yet snuffed out. Clem didn’t know how to fan it, but she knew that she needed to. As she thought, she became very conscious of the rhythm of his body and the horse as they moved across the desert. Riding with him was hypnotic, reminiscent of when she’d ridden with her father.
On cold fall evenings, Jim Wells would zip them both up in his large sheepskin jacket, keeping her warm as they rode to the high ridge of their property to watch the sun set before dinner. She could feel the cold on her nose and ears, the comfort of her father’s heartbeat. Even when she got her own horse, they still rode to watch the sunset, but it wasn’t the same.
She could almost purr with the memory. She didn’t want to like the way this stranger’s arm felt around her waist, acknowledge how secure she felt with him. She’d done that once before. She frowned in displeasure at her own reaction. Apparently, even after the divorce, she hadn’t learned anything at all. She was still waiting for someone to keep her close.

CHAPTER TWO
CLEM JERKED AWAKE as they rode up to Dexter Scott’s ranch, then stiffened when she realized she’d relaxed against him. He obliged her new posture by loosening his arm, though she could still feel his hand on the top of her hip. A dingy, two-story Victorian came into sight, along with dead patches of grass and flower beds long overgrown with wild roses and native plants. Dexter Scott apparently cared more for the comfort of his horses than himself, because three well-placed, well-kept stables and a barn made the old Victorian look more faded.
Clem couldn’t help studying the layout of his training area. She smiled when she saw a corral of horses only a mother or Dexter Scott could love. How different than what she’d anticipated. She’d imagined a ranch rather like an elite racing stable with glossy-coated handsome horses prancing across acres of green lawn.
Glossy coats, yes. Handsome, no. Dexter Scott’s horses sported eyes set too close or ears too big or markings just plain wrong. Rather than giving these horses an endearing quality, the physical imperfections made them look as if they were genetic throw-backs of the worst possible mix. Clementine refused to be disappointed. Now that she’d found him, she was going to make sure Dexter Scott was the legend she needed him to be.
“Guess I must’ve dozed off. I was driving all night,” she apologized, mentally climbing a thicker branch of hope. First impressions were rarely the measure one should use to judge the character of a person or a situation, right? And she shouldn’t judge the horses, either.
A large hand slid under her thigh.
“Off you go,” Dexter said as he boosted her leg over the saddle horn. With his arm still around her waist, Clem was gently set down on the ground. From this perspective, Dexter Scott was enormous. He swung himself out of the saddle and led the horse to one of the stables. The horses in the corral tossed their heads in greeting. Clem stood for a moment, looking around, trying to get her bearings. Then, even though he didn’t invite her, she followed him.
Dexter Scott was sliding the door with one hand, and just as she’d suspected, it opened with a quiet swish perfectly balanced on its rails like a finely made dresser drawer. She followed him as he led the horse to an empty stall. Yes, a man who kept his stables so clean could be an elite cowboy.
“So,” Clem began. She climbed up on the lowest slat of the stall in order to see him better. “I need your help.”
“Grab that hard brush for me, will you?” he asked her as he untied the leather knots of the saddle. He tended to his horse with practiced, methodical movements. With an easy heft, he put the saddle on a stall rail before he folded the horse blanket. Then with complete absorption, he ran his hand up and down the horse’s back, up and down his legs, feeling for small stickers or other irritants.
A moment later Clem got the brush and handed it to him. With even circles, he began to curry the horse, getting rid of the dirt, gravel and bits of desert sand that had worked their way up under the saddle. After a protracted silence, Clem wondered if he’d actually heard her.
“I need your help,” Clem repeated, mesmerized by his movements. His right hand brushed, while his left hand followed behind, lightly. Every so often, he paused to dig through the coarse hair to investigate before continuing. The horse stretched with the care and Clem could see the muscles ripple on its withers. With each stroke, Clem felt even more certain that this was the man she wanted, the man she needed.
After he finished one side, he moved to the other and as if synchronized, Clem picked up a softer finishing brush and went to work. The horse whinnied softly. Dexter Scott just kept brushing and feeling, feeling and brushing. Clem wondered if he paid attention to his wife the same way he paid attention to the horse.
“It’s taken me a month to find you,” Clem remarked, trying another way into the conversation. “I’ve driven all night from Los Banos.”
His hat obscured everything but his mouth. “I know Los Banos.”
Clem took that as an opening. “My dad has a ranch southwest of the city, right up against the Diablo range.”
After another extended silence, Clem tried again. Maybe he was waiting for her to finish her thought.
“We have a few cows roaming up there I need to get down.”
“A few?”
If she could see his face, she’d probably watch one of those dark eyebrows arch up.
“Well, six hundred.”
He didn’t say anything.
Finally, he pushed back the brim of his hat and asked, “What kind?”
His eyes were moss-green now. Clem looked away and brushed her side more vigorously, trying to cover the flush that was working its way up her neck. She muttered, “Don’t really know.”
For the first time, he stopped what he was doing and evaluated her. “How can you not know?” Curiosity tinged his voice.

DEXTER SCOTT HAD TO ADMIT he was interested. By the way she rode and brushed, she knew her way around horses. She also knew her way around gates. Some of his gates were constructed more than a hundred years ago, though the one closest to the property was new. That one he locked.
He took advantage of the fact that she wouldn’t look at him. On closer examination, she didn’t resemble Joanna so much. Her hands, for instance. Joanna’s hands were like a basketball player’s and since she’d never wore gloves, they were as weathered as old leather. But this woman’s hands were smooth, soft, just showing signs of wear. Joanna would also have been able to tell the breed of a cow a hundred yards away. Who was she? Dexter realized he didn’t even know her name.
“Who are you, anyway?” he demanded, appalled that his voice sounded as if it erupted from his belly.
She stopped currying as the flush spread from her slender neck to her ears. “I’m sorry. I should have introduced myself earlier. Clem. Clementine Wells.”
Clementine.
“The song or the orange?”
She made a face, then shrugged slim shoulders and smiled a smile that revealed white, even teeth. “I think the song, but I know my mother is partial to tangerines.”
Dexter couldn’t think of anything to say, but he was grateful that her name wasn’t Joan or Jo or Jess.
Clementine. Clem.
They continued to brush.
“I’d be indebted if you’d just come to the ranch to look at my problem. See if there’s anything you could do. There’s a fortune waiting for anyone who can do this.”
Dexter didn’t need a fortune. He had more than enough money to exist.
“I’d offer you, er, forty percent of what you bring in.”
Dexter, against his will, wanted to laugh. She wasn’t a tough negotiator. In fact, she looked so hopeful Dexter thought that if he was a different kind of man, he’d take the forty percent and then some. But as it was, forty percent, fifty percent, a hundred percent meant nothing. He didn’t need the money. Rather than prolong her misery, he said, his voice as abrupt and definite as he could make it, “I told you, I’m retired.”
She blinked and Dexter noticed her eyes were the same color as the blue horse blanket he’d just removed. He didn’t want to see the hope there dull, but it was necessary. He didn’t work anymore and that was all there was to it.
There was another silence.
Finally, she said, still hopeful, “I have more than six hundred cattle out there, all weighing more than a thousand pounds. You’d have enough money to fix up your house.”
Dex flinched at her insinuation that he was struggling financially. He had plenty of money to fix up the house. The cans of paint that Joanna had bought for the exterior were still in the basement, dusty, untouched. He was glad the pick in his hand didn’t falter as he used quick, short movements to clean New Horse’s back right hoof.
“It’s a beautiful house.”
He ignored her, wondering why this woman didn’t seem put off.
“It’s a shame that it should be so run-down. I imagine it was quite a showpiece in its day.”
She stopped talking, but the barn wasn’t silent to Dexter. He could hear the blood rushing through his head, New Horse’s breathing, the woman’s movements as she put away the brushes. He worked his way through the other three hooves, concentrating on a grooming ritual that he’d completed a thousand times.

CLEM WATCHED THE MAN straighten from his chore.
“No.” The single word bit into the stillness.
“What?” Clem asked, pretending to play dumb. Maybe it had been wrong to make a remark about his house, but it was the truth. And she just couldn’t accept “no” for an answer.
“No,” he enunciated, and straightened. “Thanks, but no thanks. I’m retired. You have a safe drive back, ma’am.”
She watched him look around as if he’d suddenly realized he’d finished the grooming, then stride out of the stall, having to wait impatiently for Clem to exit before he could shut the door. He walked out of the barn, heading for the house.
Clem stood there, her mind whirling as she sought a solution. It wasn’t going to end this way. It wasn’t. There must be something that he wanted that she could give him. She hadn’t driven all night to be flicked away like a fly on the potato salad. His long stride had already taken him to the Victorian, where he climbed up the creaking steps, his arm extended to open the screen door.
“Hey!” she called in desperation. “Can I at least use your bathroom? It’s a heck of a drive back.”
She didn’t think he heard her, but he stopped with his hand on the screen. He moved it back and forth, back and forth. Finally, without turning, he gave a quick nod and then disappeared into the house, the door banging behind him.
Clem smiled. If she got in the house, she would at least have another shot at convincing him.
When she stepped into the house, two things struck her; the darkness and the aroma of frying sausage and pancakes. Her stomach rumbled. She was starving. She’d driven all night and the only thing she’d eaten that morning was a quick sandwich and a cup of coffee at a fast-food restaurant in Barstow. What she wouldn’t give for some of those pancakes and sausages.
“Hello?” she inquired, peering into the shadows, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the dimness.
No answer.
She supposed Dexter Scott figured she’d find her own way to the bathroom and then her own way out. She walked down the hall, looking at pictures that were covered in more than a layer of dust. Cobwebs strung the frames together, and Clementine frowned. What a sad, gloomy house. If she didn’t know that he lived here, she would have thought it was abandoned. Any happiness that it had once known had long since leached out, leaving just a shell of a house. Maybe that was what was wrong with Dexter Scott—the fun, the adventure had leached out of him.
Clementine took a deep breath. All the more reason he should help her. It’d probably do him good not to have to live in this house, day in, day out.
She heard the clattering of dishes and the pleasant rumble of male voices. Surely that couldn’t be Dexter Scott.
With a deep breath, she walked in to find him and two other cowboys seated at the rickety dining table, elbows up as they talked, washing their food down with dark coffee.
“Hi,” she said.
Her words had the effect of a pause button on the VCR. All activity stopped; forks poised in the air, a cup of coffee stopped at a mouth. She felt as if they were watching her every move, but she didn’t let that deter her.
“Hey, there.” She greeted them. “That looks really good.”
The motion started up, as the two cowboys—obviously related—exchanged glances. Forks came down, coffee was sipped, then white teeth gleamed.
“Ma’am,” the one closest to her said with a nod.
“Hi, I’m Clementine Wells.” She stuck out her hand to the one who had addressed her.
“Randy. Randy Miller.” A big hand, slightly sticky, engulfed hers, but the grip was very gentle.
“Miller?” Clem felt some hope flare. They were part of the Dexter Scott package. They were the rough ones who’d done jail time that she should steer clear of. “Of the Russell Saloon fame?”
The brothers exchanged glances. Randy grinned and poked a thumb in the other cowboy’s direction. “That was Ryan’s fault.”
“I was defending your honor.” Ryan stood up and extended his hand. “Ryan Miller. Glad to meet you.”
Less sticky but just as gentle. Clem felt a whole lot lighter. She ventured a quick glance in Dexter’s direction. He was stirring milk into a cup of coffee, hard enough to create a racket with his spoon.
“The bathroom’s down the hall. Second door to your right.” He stopped stirring.
Randy grinned and Clem realized she did have to use the facilities. “Thank you. I’ll be right back.”
“Then you’ll be on your way,” Dexter said, his voice rough.
“Mmm-hmm.” Clem hedged her bets. Maybe she could get a breakfast out of this. And another opportunity to convince him.

“SO WHERE DID SHE COME FROM?” Randy asked as he leaned over the table.
Dexter stuffed a forkful of pancakes in his mouth even though they tasted like straw. He swigged some of the coffee and then added more syrup to the stack and took another bite.
One trait that this woman, Clementine, and Joanna had in common was the fact they couldn’t take “no” for an answer. Even when he’d said “no” to Joanna, she’d thought it meant “maybe,” and then through sheer persistence made him change the “maybe” to an “I’ll think about it,” eventually ending up with an “okay, with stipulations,” which Joanna had ignored, anyway.
He didn’t want to smile, but he couldn’t help it. Joanna had been the only person who really knew him, who could see past his dark moods, who could make him laugh at the most dire of times. Seven years older, he’d taken care of her forever, shielding her from their father’s abuse, telling her stories about their long-gone mother. Those stories were lies. Their mother had left them when Joanna was just a baby. Their father had never been the same. And when he’d taken an unnatural interest in Joanna’s ten-year-old body, Dexter had left with Joanna in tow. They’d ridden three buses to get to Las Vegas, where Uncle Grubb, their father’s older brother, had met them at the bus station and brought them here. For the first time ever, Dexter and Joanna had known what it was to live in a real home, the same Victorian their father had grown up in. Dex had slept in the attic Grubb had remodeled, because he believed a teenage boy needed his privacy, while Joanna had lived in a fairy-tale alcove.
Since Grubb didn’t have children, he showered a lifetime of love on his newly acquired niece and nephew. When he died, he’d made Joanna and Dexter equal partners in the ranch. At the time, Dex and Ben Thorton were getting their business together. Joanna met Randy and Ryan and talked them into joining. Convincing Randy had been easy. Soon he and Joanna were inseparable.
After Joanna’s death, the ranch had become as desolate and bleak as Dex felt. He certainly didn’t need some woman with a stubborn chin and big blue eyes lighting up a room that he’d dimmed on purpose. He’d hoped she’d gotten the message and would be gone as soon as possible.
No such luck.
Before he could think to protest, Randy had invited her for some pancakes, which she accepted, seating herself right next to him.
He stared at the nicks in the table.
“I’m starving,” she confessed, with a shy glance toward him, which he tried to ignore as well. That didn’t seem to daunt her at all. She just held out a plate toward Ryan, who heaped it full with sausage, scrambled eggs and pancakes.
“Enough!” Clem protested with a giggle. “I’ll waddle my way home.”
It almost hurt to hear feminine laughter.
“You’re leaving after you eat those,” Dexter told her.
She stared at him with those large eyes fringed with dark lashes, and then nodded, her eyes cast down in acquiescence.
Dexter didn’t believe it for a second. To make sure that she left after she ate, he would escort her out to her vehicle himself and watch until he couldn’t see her taillights any more.
“And where is home?” Randy asked her.
“Los Banos.”
“Pretty country,” Ryan commented.
Clem nodded. “I’ve just moved back to my father’s ranch. He and my mother retired to Arizona last summer.”
“And what brings you way out here?”
There was a long pause, and Dexter found that he’d stopped eating, because even though he knew what she had to say, he liked the way she spoke, as if she had to force herself to speak louder to be heard.
“I bought some cattle that’ve gone feral on me in a year.”
“Really, now?” Ryan perked up. “How many?”
“Lots. Over six hundred.”
“And?” Randy asked, his voice speculative.
“I’ve come to ask Mr. Scott if he’d like the job.”
“Dex’s retired.”
Dexter bristled. Funny, how he’d spent the morning trying to convince her that she was barking up the wrong tree, and now that Randy had confirmed it— Well, hell. He didn’t need Randy talking for him.
“You are retired, aren’t you, Dex?” Ryan asked, a speculative look in his eyes.
Dexter didn’t say anything. He knew what his friends were doing. They’d been trying to get him back into the business, telling him life went on even after death. Randy had said as much, but Dexter didn’t want to believe it. It still hurt too much—not just Joanna’s death or the massive hole that her presence left, but the undeniable knowledge that he’d caused it.
“Even ballplayers come out of retirement,” Clementine said. Then she took one look at his expression and turned her attention to Randy. “Since Mr. Scott isn’t available, maybe you and your brother would think about taking the project on. I’ve heard just as many good things about you. I’m offering forty percent.”
“How big did you estimate those cows were?” Randy asked.
“Conservatively— A thousand pounds. I think there are several up to fifteen hundred pounds.”
“In a season?” Ryan was skeptical. “I don’t think so.”
Clem shrugged. “I didn’t think so, either, but unless there were six hundred cows with our brand that we forgot to pick up last year, these are the ones I put out in October.”
“When would you need us to start?” Randy asked.
Dexter had been doing fine with the conversation. He’d been eating breakfast, minding his own business, disregarding the pointed looks his friends gave him, ignoring the fact that if he didn’t look down he’d be staring at the soft curve of Clementine Wells’s neck. But he coughed with Randy’s question. No. Randy couldn’t be thinking about taking the job.
“I thought you guys had sworn to take a couple weeks off before starting up again,” Dexter finally said.
All eyes turned to him.
Clem ignored his outburst. “I’d really like to get the cows in before Thanksgiving. I know that doesn’t give you much resting time, but my parents are coming back for the holiday, and it’d be nice to have this problem taken care of.”
Ryan grinned. “Thanksgiving? It’s only September.”
“You don’t know these cows,” Clem said, her voice ominous.
“You have any men to help us?”
Dexter made a noise of protest, but no one acknowledged that, either.
Clem nodded. “Three, I know I could call on if we had real work. I could ask around.”
Randy looked at Ryan for confirmation. “No. I think the five of us can do some considerable damage. Ryan?”
Ryan shrugged. “Why not?”
“Okay, Ms. Wells.”
“Clem, call me Clem, please.” She gave them a relieved smile and attacked her stack of pancakes. “Thank you. You don’t know what your help means to me. Thank you.”
Dexter couldn’t stand her effusive gratefulness anymore. He got up and went outside without a word.

THE ORANGE JUICE IN THEIR cups vibrated from Dexter’s abrupt departure, and a silence fell over the table. Clem ate as rapidly as she could, trying not to mind that he’d left so quickly.
“You should slow down,” Ryan cautioned her. “You’ll get indigestion.”
Clem looked up into his sympathetic eyes. “I’ve overstayed my welcome.”
“It’s not that,” Randy told her. “You just caught him by surprise. You caught all of us by surprise.” He studied her face. “Though I’m wondering if this isn’t the best thing for him.”
Clem wiped her mouth and then stood up to take her dish to the sink.
Ryan intercepted her, taking the plate from her. “Don’t worry about that, we’ve got it.”
“Thank you so much for the breakfast and for considering the job. It seems as if I’ve searched a long time for men like you.” Clem scribbled her name and phone number on a scrap of paper by the sink. “You’ll call me when you’re ready to come?”
The brothers nodded. “Probably by the end of the week.”
“Where’s your car?” Randy asked.
“Truck,” Clem said. “Out by the last gate. I walked in. Well, rode in, when I found the brown horse.”
Randy looked at her hard. “What brown horse?”
“The nice one with the white star,” Clem smiled. “He’s a sweetie.”
Both brothers snorted.
“What?” she asked.
They exchanged glances with each other. Then Randy laughed with a rueful shake of his head. “I bet that stuck in his craw. New Horse doesn’t usually like to be ridden. Ms. Wells—”
“Clem, please.” Clementine insisted.
“Clem, I’ll drive you back,” Randy said, fishing the keys out of his pocket.
“Thank you. You will call, right?” She looked for affirmation from one or the other, but both nodded at the same time, wide smiles transforming their faces.
“Expect us at the end of the week.”
When Randy pushed open the screen door for her, Clem saw Dexter leaning up against a porch rail, staring pensively at the corral of horses. He didn’t look up.
“I’ll just be running Clem back to her truck,” Randy said, keys rattling.
Clem didn’t even think Dexter heard until he pulled himself off the rail. He put an arm out to block Randy’s way.
“I’ll take her” was all he said.
Clem looked over her shoulder at Randy, who just smiled and shrugged. Without waiting for her, Dexter Scott had already taken the three steps off the porch and was striding toward his truck.
“You coming?” he asked as he paused at the passenger side, yanking open the door.
Clem forced herself to walk, not trot, to where Dexter was putting a shotgun on the rack behind the seat. The shortness of his movements screamed his impatience.
“Thank you,” Clem said as he boosted her up. Lord, he was strong. She could feel his fingers, as if they were each individually imprinted on her upper arm. “I could have ridden with Mr. Miller.” Clem pushed the assortment of papers on the seat across to the middle before she sat down.
“I want to make sure you’re going to leave,” he said as he climbed in next to her. He indicated the wad of oil-stained rags Clem held in her hands. “Just put those on the floor.”
Clem dropped them at her feet.
“I am leaving.” She hunted for the seat belt. It was the dustiest truck that she’d ever been in, clearly not equipped for passengers. She was sure there would be bottom imprints where she sat. Disposable soda cups were everywhere, giving Clem a good idea what fast food he favored when he was on the road. She lifted off the seat and pried out a pencil from the seam between the seat and the back-rest, before positioning herself as far away as she could get from him, keeping her posture very straight. His quick glance told her that he noticed.
“I did find your horse for you.” Clem couldn’t keep the asperity out of her voice as he turned the key.
The engine revved.
“And I did provide you a way home, so you didn’t have to walk,” Clem reminded him.
When he spun the truck into a tight turn, she held on to the pipe that he’d rigged as a door handle.
“And I know first aid, so if you were hurt, I was prepared to patch you up.”
With that said she lapsed into prim silence.
It didn’t matter one bit that he wasn’t going to respond, though she did notice that contrary to the fast spin, they were moving at an awfully slow pace toward her truck. She glanced at his speedometer. Their speed didn’t even register.
“The faster you go, the faster I’ll be out of here,” she said, and braved a full look at him.
Her heart stopped.
He was smiling, or at least she thought he was smiling. There were crinkles in the corners of his eyes and his lips were definitely tilted up.
“And in return, I didn’t shoot you,” Dexter replied.
“Well, that’s true,” Clem agreed. “But that was because I had your shotgun.”
“I was close enough to get it back, if I wanted it. I could have shot you out in the desert and left you for dead.”
“You wouldn’t do that.” Clem was positive. Even though he’d been none too friendly, his smile did odd, fluttery things to her chest.
He gave her a sidelong look. “And what makes you so sure? You know, a female all alone isn’t necessarily safe.”
She’d had that thought herself. But she’d forced herself to keep going. She’d found him, even though he didn’t want to be found. “Sometimes it’s not always a good thing to be safe.”
“Safety is a human need,” he said.
Clem nodded and saw that her truck was indeed closer, even though it seemed as if he’d actually stopped. “True. But I’ve been safe all my life. This was one time that I thought more about what I needed to do than what would be safe. And I got what I wanted. Your friends are coming to help me.”
There was a long pause. Clem could hear the tires crunch over the gravel.
Finally, Dexter admitted, “They’re good men. The best. If you have a cow problem, they’ll be able to fix it.”
Maybe it was a note in his voice, maybe it was the way that he furrowed his brow, but something made Clem want to reach out and pat his arm. Instead, she blurted, “You sure you don’t want to come, too?”
For a moment, no longer than it took to blink, Clem swore that he did. He studied her and Clem felt the familiar flush creep up her neck.
“You blush easy.”
Clem didn’t know how to answer that. “It’s because I’m so fair.”
“Or you’re shy.”
“Maybe. That’s safe, too, huh?”
“Shyness?”
She nodded. “Sure. If I’m shy, I don’t have to risk meeting new people. Shy is like those gates that you’ve got. They minimize the chance of people intruding. Seems as if we’re alike that way.”
Dexter didn’t say anything, and after a moment they were at the gates.
Clem struggled to open the door.
“The old handle broke,” he explained. “Let me.” He leaned over, his arm brushing up against her legs. With an easy jerk, he popped the door open. While he was at it, he unclipped her seat belt.
“Thanks.”
“No problem.”
She saw him getting out and assured him, “I’ll be fine. I promise I won’t bother you anymore.”
“How are you going to get through the gate?” he asked, his voice dry.
“The same way I got in. I’ll climb over it.” She gave him a big grin.
He held up a key. “Save your energy. You’ve got a long drive back.”
She waited as he crouched down next to the lock. It was hard to believe that she was never going to see him again. She resisted the urge to lay her hand on his shoulder, to run the back of her hand along the soft skin under his collar.
He released the padlock and stood up, swinging open the gate. “There you go, ma’am.”
“I guess I should thank you for not shooting me.” She made her tone as light as possible, as she stepped past him, but it was hard because her lips felt dry and dusty. She licked them, not at all sure why she was possessed with the overwhelming urge to kiss this man. Was it the loneliness in his eyes? Her heart thumped harder at the thought. She knew about being lonely even when surrounded by other people, about being lonely even when you were married or sleeping in the same bed with someone. Maybe Dexter Scott had chosen solitude. Maybe he’d chosen to erect the fences around his property, but no one, not even Dexter Scott, would choose loneliness.
His eyes were trained on her face, as if he could read her thoughts. She focused on his lips.
It’d been so very long since she’d had a real kiss. There’d be nothing to regret, because kissing Dexter Scott would be merely a crowning regret on the top of the six hundred regrets running around on her father’s property.
Besides, she’d never see him again.

CHAPTER THREE
AS CLEARLY AS IF SHE HAD already kissed him, she could feel his stubble under her hand. Heat reflected off his clear eyes and she stepped toward him. As if choreographed, Dexter met her, and she wrapped her arms around his neck, feeling the solid muscles. He flinched just slightly and she remembered his tender shoulder.
“Sorry,” she murmured.
“What for?” His voice was right in her ear, low, husky. She could feel the moist warmth of his mouth right at the curve of her jawline.
“Your shoulder.”
“It’s fine.” He held her tighter as if to prove to her there was nothing wrong with his shoulder. The weight of his arm against her waist was reassuring. His hand was splayed across the small of her back, warming her. It had been a long time. Perhaps a lifetime. She didn’t remember having this feeling with Nick, not ever. Not even on their wedding night.
Dex’s face was so close she could see the individual pores that the rough stubble grew out of. She inhaled, smelling saddle wax, sweat, dust. It was a dangerous combination. Clem became fascinated by the slight cleft in his chin, the indentations in his profile, the distinct cupid’s bow, the dimple that flickered in and out. He seemed to have stopped breathing and was waiting.
Simply waiting.
“This isn’t what shy women do,” he informed her with a low, guttural whisper. “Kiss strange men.”
His words should have jerked her back to reality, but right now, she couldn’t think, all she could do was feel the strength of his arm behind her, the heat of his body in front of her, the brush of his powerful thighs, supporting the both of them, because she was certain that if he let go, she’d fall over.
“I haven’t kissed you yet.” She searched his eyes, which he tried to shutter.

DEXTER FROZE. Instead of letting go, as he intended, he found himself pulling this woman, this Clementine, closer to him, just to feel her press up against him.
Let go, his rational mind hollered at him. Just let go and step back. Okay, it finally conceded, if you can’t step back, just let go. You can step back in a second.
Too late.
He felt her lips graze his, the heat of even that slight contact exploding in his chest. Bad idea. This was what playing with fire meant. He felt like a moth, fluttering up against a stark lightbulb, drawn to the very thing that would cause the destruction of all his walls. He didn’t move, but rather lowered his head. If exploring that tender bottom lip of hers was going to be his destruction, then so be it.
His mouth covered hers, tentatively at first and then with the intensity of a moth that had been too long without light. She moaned and pulled herself onto her toes, her fingers stroking his neck and shoulders in a concentric circle that was making it hard to think. His eyes began to flutter closed, and then she was gone.

CLEM JERKED BACK, gulping for air, trying to pretend the kiss wasn’t the best kiss she’d ever had and wondering what else she’d been missing. If someone had told her Dexter Scott would one day kiss her the way he just had, she would have never married Nick. She would have waited for Dexter Scott, even if it took him years to find her. Incredible. What an incredible kiss. Clementine felt her cheeks burn.
“Sorry about that. I don’t know what got into me,” she apologized. She hunted around in her jacket pocket for her keys, too embarrassed to even look at him.
“Don’t be.” The words were gruff.
She looked up and saw that his pupils were dilated. He took the keys from her hand and walked the two steps to her truck and opened up the door.
Wordlessly, Clem climbed in, unable to sort out the feelings churning inside her chest. She didn’t want to leave him. She wanted to see him again. Then she laughed. Los Banos and Barstow were far apart. A long-distance relationship would never work. She rolled down the window and then started up the truck.
“I guess this is goodbye,” she said.
“I guess so.”
“You sure you don’t want to come out and see my cows?”
There was a long pause.
Finally, he shut her door with a controlled slam and said, his voice short, “I’m retired.”

WITH CURIOUS ANTICIPATION Clem stepped into a clean pair of just-for-company blue jeans. When she’d gotten home the other day, she’d slept for sixteen hours. It was the first good sleep she’d had in a long time. Randy Miller had called her the following afternoon to confirm their arrival time today. She would be so glad to see them, so glad that she would be able to hoist this particular burden onto their very capable shoulders. She didn’t ask about Dexter Scott, or invite him again, but she couldn’t help but think that it was his phone number Randy had given her. After this was over, she could always call him.
And then do what?
She was as inept at this as a sixth grader.
She shook off thoughts of Dexter Scott and his kiss as she fastened around her neck a gold heart locket that her father had given her on her sixteenth birthday. She needed to focus on her guests. Ryan had phoned earlier and told her to expect them at four o’clock. She’d spent most of the late morning and early afternoon cooking a supper she hoped would make her mother proud. A roast was slow simmering along with new potatoes, boiler onions and carrots. She’d made up a batch of coleslaw and prepared green beans, then she’d baked plenty of buttery garlic biscuits.
She hurried down the stairs, giving the dining room table another critical look. Her grandmother’s china and silver looked nice on the lace tablecloth. It was a big table for three, but the floral centerpiece she’d had specially made in town compensated for the expanse.
Clem pulled open the kitchen door to check on the roast. Frijole, her elderly tabby, was lying in a particularly comforting sunbeam and meowed her disapproval. She got up, arched her back and gave a languid stretch, her front paws fully extended, her toes splayed. Then she straightened and looked expectantly at Clem.
“Sorry, girl,” Clem said, and picked up the tabby. Clem felt her pulse slow considerably as she stroked Frijole. “Don’t you know company’s coming?” She buried her face into the soft fur. Frijole had absorbed many tears these past few years.
With the roast simmering and nothing left to do, Clem sat in her parents’ living room and stared at the floor-to-ceiling stone fireplace. Should she start a fire? She nixed the idea. It wasn’t cool enough yet. A moment later, she found herself hopping up to the door to see if she could detect any activity on the dirt road. At four-thirty, she moved to the porch, where she’d have a much better view of on-coming vehicles. Frijole joined her, plopping her twenty pounds on Clem’s lap. When the sun started to fade, she fingered the cell phone number Randy had given her.
Clem got up and paced the length of the porch. She’d faxed them a detailed map, and they’d assured her they were familiar with the area. The phone rang inside the house, startling her as it echoed off the high ceilings. Cowchip, her parents’ toothless fifteen-year-old Australian shepherd, began to bark. Clem shot through the door and lunged for the phone.
“Hello?” Clem asked breathlessly.
“Gate’s locked.”
Clem felt her heart clog her throat as adrenaline rushed through her veins. The voice sent a dozen light fingers down the fine hairs on her nape. She couldn’t help the smile that spread across her face.
“W-what?” Maybe she was wrong. Maybe it was just Randy or Ryan.
“Gate’s locked,” the voice repeated. “Can’t get through.”
She wasn’t mistaken. That voice was branded into her mind along with his kiss.
“Mr. Scott.”
“Ms. Wells.”
“I thought you were retired.”
“Gate’s still locked.” He evaded her comment. He was here. He’d ventured outside the safety of his gates.
“Climb over,” she joked.
The silence on the other side told her he didn’t find that funny.
She added, “I’m coming right out. I thought I left it unlocked. Maybe one of the neighbors saw it and closed it up.” She was rambling, but she couldn’t help it. She was just so excited.
She hurried to her truck, pausing a moment to boost Cowchip into the back.
“Thank you, God,” she whispered as she bounced down the road. She didn’t know what she was thanking him for, the help or Dexter Scott. Nine miles and two gates later, she arrived at the fence just a mile off the main road and laughed with relief when she saw one pink and one dusty-brown truck, both with trailers hitched behind. The men were standing outside, talking and chuckling, their hats tilted low on their heads.
“Hi!” she said as she slid out of the cab of her truck. Cowchip hopped out with her to greet the strangers. She brushed her hair back, unintentionally making eye contact with Dexter. Her face hot, she bent down to find the lock. Clem felt her hands tremble as she fumbled to put the key in it.
Cowchip had managed to wriggle through the fence, and dogs started to bark in the back of one of the trailers. Horses whinnied. Cowchip snuffled Dexter Scott’s jeans and boots, her tongue hanging out in happiness as Dex leaned over to scratch her behind her ears. Clem couldn’t help watching. Even Cowchip fell victim to those hands, competent and calm, able to lull any unsuspecting being into a state of sedated rapture.
“You made it.” She couldn’t stop the breathy quality in her voice, and she tried to cover it up by yanking off the lock and swinging open the gate.
Dexter straightened, uncurling to stand at his full height, his shoulders expanding like the wingspan of a hawk. The smile he had for Cowchip disappeared, replaced with a look much more speculative as his gaze flickered up and down, pausing at the heart locket. Her hand came up to touch it. He continued to stare, as if he were taking in every detail of her, his eyes finally settling on her mouth. He remembered the kiss, Clem realized. If possible, her face felt hotter. Clem turned to the Miller brothers.
“Are you a sight for sore eyes,” Clem said, leaning over to shake their hands heartily.
Randy laughed. “I bet we are. I figured you wouldn’t mind if we brought along extra baggage.” He elbowed Dexter in the back, but he ignored Randy and got back into his truck and then gunned the engine.
Clem took that as her cue. She moved her truck on to the gravel road so they could pull around her. Then she shut and relocked the gate before jumping into the truck to catch up with them. At the next gate, she felt as if she was all fingers, knowing Dexter was watching her every movement. When she finally got the latch undone, she glanced up at him and he tipped his hat in acknowledgement, then drove past her.
By the time they’d gone through the last gate and arrived at the house, Clem was very relieved. They got out of their trucks, looking around.
“Beautiful area.” Ryan whistled.
Clem nodded. “Thanks.” She walked toward the main house. “Come in, please.”
Randy shook his head. “We need to let the horses and the dogs out. They’ve been cooped up for long enough. They need a good stretch. It probably wouldn’t be a bad idea to let the horses out in the corral for a while, just to get the kinks out of their legs.”
“Of course,” Clem agreed. “Do you need help?”
“No. We’ve got it.” Randy was already starting to unlatch the trailer. Ryan was right behind him, letting the dogs out the side door.
The dogs barked with enthusiasm and raced up and down the courtyard, releasing hours of pent-up energy.
“Any preferences where we put the horses?” Ryan asked, leading out a beautiful mahogany horse, obviously not one of Dexter’s.
Clem shook her head. “Either corral is fine.” She pointed west. “I emptied that stable for all your horses. I hope there’s enough room. If not, you’re welcome to any free space.”
Dexter looked up at the sky. “A few can stay out. They might prefer it. Give them a chance to get used to the air.”
A shrill, terrified screech grabbed their attention. The dogs were chasing Frijole, who moved quite swiftly considering her bulk, scrambling under the trailer ramp, only to startle New Horse, who was being led out by Randy.
“Quince! Bam-Bam! Dell! Come!” Dexter commanded, sharpness in his voice.
Then a sharp epithet shot out of Randy as he clutched his face. New Horse was free.
Clem ran toward New Horse, who was intent on trampling Frijole. The cat squalled in defense, teeth bared, her body hunched, prepared to both attack and retreat at the same time. Clem walked with careful purpose toward the brown horse, crooning to him, reassuring him that the cat wouldn’t hurt him. But even though the horse’s ears pricked up at the sound of her voice, his eyes were wild and his hooves were ready to flatten the cat.
As if in slow motion, Dexter saw New Horse rear again when Clem stepped in to rescue the cat. And he felt raw fear trickle down the back of his neck like sweat.
What the hell was she doing?
She was going to be crushed.
Fear became terror. He was suffocating as he stood there watching her sweep up the cat and duck under New Horse, the horse’s hooves just inches from her head. She stumbled, barely clinging to the cat and her balance. But somehow, she kept her footing.
“It’s not the horse’s fault,” Dexter heard in a fog as Clem reassured the cat. “He’s just a little spooked. I’d suggest, Frijole, if you want to live out the few lives you have left, you keep clear of the dogs and the horses while they’re here.” With a quick kiss to the furry head, Clem let go of the cat, who sensibly took off for the safety of the bunkhouse. Then she walked up to the frenzied horse and caught his reins.
Dexter saw her arms strain against the power of the horse, but she kept crooning to him as she moved as close to him as she could.

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