Porcupine Ranch. Sally Carleen

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      Samuel came to stand beside her and survey the controlled chaos that was her home—stacks of papers, drawings for graphics pinned to chair backs and thumbtacked to walls, books sprawled here and there with protruding bits of paper marking pertinent pages, articles of clothing sprinkled throughout and other odds and ends.

      “Look,” she repeated, waving her hand through the air. “Not one empty chair. Clean houses have empty chairs. I haven’t seen my carpet in so long, I don’t remember what color it is. I live on peanut butter sandwiches, chips and dips, frozen dinners and colas because I don’t know how to cook.”

      Samuel wrapped an arm about her shoulders. “There you go again, underestimating yourself. You can do anything you want to do. How many times have you told me that everything anybody needs to know can be found in books? I just happen to have a book on cleaning house as well as a cookbook.”

      Good grief! He had this all planned out! Just like the call to the bank!

      “Even if I could do it, I already have a job! I’m under contract for Unicorn in the Garden. They’re willing to live without me being a part of the advertising, but they do want the game finished in time to feature it in their fall catalog of computer games. I have a deadline!”

      Samuel took her arm. “Please, Hannah. I’m counting on you. Let’s go over to my place where I’ve got empty chairs. I’ll fix you a nice cold cola, and we can talk about this.”

      “No.” This no wasn’t quite as firm, she noticed with dismay. Surely she wasn’t going to let herself be talked into this insanity.

      “It’ll only be for one day, maybe two.”

      “Oh, right. Like he’s not going to notice by the end of the first day that I haven’t done any cooking or cleaning.” But she found herself allowing Samuel to lead her into his apartment. Saying no to him was so difficult, just as she’d never been able to say no to her own grandfather.

      Beyond that, she realized with a sinking feeling, some perverse part of her actually wanted to go back to Clayton’s ranch and prove to him that she could do everything Mrs. Grogan had done. To see approval in those piercing eyes.

      Jeez! She really had lost her mind.

      * * *

      Shortly after ten-thirty the next day, Hannah’s teeth rattled as she drove over the cattle guard onto Clayton’s ranch.

      In the back seat she had two of the outrageously expensive suitcases her mother had given her for high school graduation, the large one full of clothes and the small one containing Samuel’s cookbook and housekeeping manual.

      No doubt about it. She’d slipped a gear, gone mental—she was, in the vernacular, nuts.

      Especially considering she was halfway—well, maybe a quarter way—excited about this venture, about seeing Clayton Sinclair in his faded denims and scuffed cowboy boots again, even if she could only grunt or gurgle at him.

      A giant ERROR message flashed across her mind at that thought. She’d feel Clayton out about his grandfather, tell him how sick with grief Samuel had been, convince him Samuel would never have deserted Clayton’s mother if he’d known he had a grandson on the way, and then she’d get out of there quick. Before night.

      She focused on the road stretching ahead, a dry, colorless ribbon leading to the house. A glance in the rearview mirror showed nothing but a giant cloud of dust roiling in her wake, following her. As omens went, it didn’t seem like a very good one.

      

      Clayton swore under his breath as he tried to herd a group of ten normal cattle plus one rambunctious young bull who seemed to think this was all a game.

      Usually he kind of agreed with the bull.

      Cattle could be difficult creatures, and trying to raise them in the tough brush country only made it worse. Nevertheless, he loved everything about the life, every ornery cow, every dry bit of sand, every prickly cactus, every twisted mesquite tree.

      His mother, born and raised in the hill country of Austin, had hated their home as passionately as he loved it. As a child, Clayton had resented her attitude, had almost taken it as a personal rejection. But he’d come to realize that the land was simply too harsh for her. She’d have escaped years ago if she hadn’t been left alone and pregnant, the despised ranch, belonging to her dead husband and missing father-in-law, her only home and means of support.

      Gradually Clayton had taken over the management, but it was only when he reached the age of twenty-one that she’d turned over the books to him. He’d discovered then how badly she’d mismanaged the ranch, even taking out a mortgage on the place.

      He’d never blamed her. She’d done the best she could. She’d just been unsuited for the ranch.

      He took a great deal of pride in the fact that he was pulling it out of debt in spite of everything.

      The long drought was taking a heavy toll. With most of his herd under optimum weight, he desperately needed rain. But even without it, he’d manage. This was tough country, a worthy opponent, and that was what he loved about it.

      Normally, working the cattle, mending the fences—any of the necessary tasks—brought him contentment and took his mind off all the problems. But today had gotten off to a lousy start and hadn’t improved a bit so far.

      He’d wasted most of the morning hanging around the house waiting for Hannah Lindsay, his taste buds anticipating his first hot meal in three weeks.

      Not to mention that he wouldn’t mind seeing a pretty female face after looking at nothing here lately but unshaven, ugly cowboys and hairy, smelly cattle. Even if she couldn’t talk, Hannah was real easy on the eyes.

      She was also a no-show. Hadn’t even phoned to say she wasn’t coming. She’d probably realized she wouldn’t be able to hack it out here and had run for her life.

      He forced himself to pay attention to the task at hand and finally got the young bull headed in the right direction.

      He’d take this group to the corral, then go back to the house and make ham sandwiches again. It was ten-thirty already, and last night he’d promised the over-worked men that they’d have real food for lunch. Now he would have to disappoint them.

      As he neared the corral, he saw a cloud of dust rolling toward his house. That was strange. The only visitor he expected today had been Hannah Lindsay.

      Irritation and disappointment washed over him anew at the memory of her failure to show up. He’d been right about her. She was too much like his mother, her soft fragility unsuited to the land’s harshness.

      From the corner of his eye, he noticed that the rebellious bull, apparently taking advantage of Clayton’s momentary distraction, had separated from the group again.

      Cursing Hannah Lindsay and whoever was stirring up that cloud of dust, he went after the bull.

      When he finally got his cattle settled in the corral, Clayton headed toward the house. As he approached, he recognized Hannah’s little white car.

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